


(Sherlock X Reader) Because We Want To

by LVE32



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Adorable, Crushes, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cute, Cute Ending, Cute Sherlock Holmes, Declarations Of Love, Dogs, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Establishing Relationship, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Sex, F/M, Falling In Love, Feel-good, First Crush, First Kiss, First Relationship, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Funny, Gentle Kissing, Kissing, Kissing in the Rain, Lonely Sherlock, Love Confessions, Male-Female Friendship, Mild Sexual Content, Morning Cuddles, Movie Night, Mutual Pining, Non-Explicit Sex, Pining, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Platonic Cuddling, Pre-Relationship, Rain, Reader-Insert, Secret Crush, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Sherlock Has A Crush, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Sherlock's First Time, Shy Sherlock Holmes, Sleepy Cuddles, Sweet Sherlock, Touch starved Sherlock, Touch-Starved, Vulnerable Sherlock, Walks In The Park, dog sitting, looking after a pet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25190986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LVE32/pseuds/LVE32
Summary: When Y/N (much to Sherlock's delight) has to look after her friend's dog for a couple of days, the experience accidentally changes a few things in 221B for the better.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Reader
Comments: 11
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Let's say, for the sake of this story, that you'd very much like to one day settle down as Mrs Holmes in a cottage in the British countryside with your husband, dog, and maybe a few children.

It was a brittle January afternoon. Snow is drifting lazily down from the dull grey sky, but not enough to be satisfying. The flakes aren't fat and heavy like downy feathers, they're minuscule and prickly like sugar crystals dusted onto a cookie.

Y/N's Christmas holiday was slowly trickling to an end, while, much to her annoyance, Sherlock's still ploughed on---not that he wanted it to. He wasn't even formally on a holiday, rather, he was forced to take one because crime always seemed to dry up around mid-winter. Perpetrators may be hardened criminals but they seem to be just as sensitive to the cold as everyone else and prefer to commit their various offences during warmer times.

You would think that this arid spell would mean life in 221B---especially now that the weather made going outside very unappealing also---next to unbearable. After three weeks without a case, Y/N had estimated that Sherlock's boredom would reach fatal levels by New Years and he'd be dead before seeing his birthday.

Each morning she would sleepily stumble into the kitchen, expecting to see him slumped diagonally in his chair, complaining loudly about his brain shrivelling into a raisin due to lack of stimulation.

And each morning she was pleasantly surprised to find that her estimation had been incorrect.

The days went on, Sherlock's birthday came and went, and he continued to be in a surprisingly amiable mood. He'd do experiments at the table, find things to stare at under his microscope, read in his chair, or even sometimes just watch television. He seemed to have relaxed, uncoiled enough to enjoy simple things, even asking Y/N to play board games with him, or let him join her while she pursues her own interests. Well, this behaviour isn't exactly new. These are typical between-cases-Sherlock habits. What _is_ new is the length of time he's been doing them. Usually, a week is the absolute limit, but now it's been at least three, and he doesn't seem to care.

Lestrade had joked that if he didn't know any better he'd say the detective was in love. Or perhaps at least 'getting some', as he put it. Y/N had wondered this too, despite how unlikely it seemed, and watched him closely but he never really left her sight. Not long enough to carry out a relationship---serious or casual---anyway. Thus, she put his good mood down to the simple fact that he enjoyed this time of year and left it at that. She'd _rather_ put it down to that. It was much easier to accept than the rather ill-tasting mental image of him dating. It's not that Y/N didn't want Sherlock to be with anyone---she did, she wants him to be happy, of course---she would just rather that the person he was with, the person that makes him happy was her.

At present, Sherlock was still in his pyjamas and a dressing gown and was hunting around in the kitchen cupboards for left-over mince pies. Y/N had been the one to put them away, and he knew this, so kept asking her for directions, which she wouldn't usually mind, had she not been on the phone.

"You said they were in the top cupboard," his voice drifted over, muffled by various tins, jars, and that one Tupperware box Y/N didn't want to look in.

She covered the mic with her hand not holding her mobile to her ear and whispered at him: "They are, shhhh."

Despite being rather tall, Sherlock still had to push himself up on tiptoes to see into the storage space, and now sank, defeated, the rest of his bare feet back onto the tiles. "No, they're not."

Electing to ignore her friend, Y/N released the phone's microphone and continued her conversation. "That's a shame, what are you going to do instead?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask for more help, then saw Y/N's face as she gave him a warning look. He shut his it quickly and just stood in the middle of the kitchen chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully. Then an idea must have come to him because he darted over to his desk drawer and started hunting through that instead.

Y/N's eyes followed him with amusement as the familiar female voice of an old friend, Laura, crackled through from her end of the call. Y/N knew she was due to be going on her honeymoon this very evening, but her dog-sitter had fallen ill and cancelled at the last second, putting her plans in jeopardy. Y/N knew why Laura was calling and wished she'd just skip to the part where she pretends to suddenly have the genius idea that Y/N could dog-sit, then beg her until she concedes. But she, like all people feeling guilty for putting others out, insists on dancing around the subject, sort of nudging Y/N into suggesting it herself. "You can't cancel, it's your _honeymoon_."

Finding a pen and piece of scrap paper, Sherlock went back to the dining table and scribbled something onto the A4. He held it up for Y/N to read. It said:

'THEY'RE NOT IN TOP CUPBOARD'

Rolling her eyes, Y/N strode over to the kitchen and opened the _other_ top cupboard and pulled out the box of uneaten mince pies, pushing them into the now slightly embarrassed Sherlock's chest. Still talking into her phone: "Surely there's someone else who can look after him?"

Sherlock, content now that his stomach was getting what it wanted, had sunk into a chair to enjoy his treat and started watching Y/N's side of the conversation. He does that a lot, watch her, Y/N realised, as if she's a fish in a tank, or a character on that videogame, The Sims. Not watching her in a critical or strange way, just as if he...enjoyed looking at her.

 _'Maybe he's more bored than he lets on,'_ she thought. "Me?" They'd (at last) got to that part where the person asking for a favour gets bored of hinting and finally just comes out with it. It's moments like these that Y/N realises she'd probably spent too much time around Sherlock; his clipped ways of socialising are rubbing off on her. "I don't know, Laura, it's pretty short notice."

At this, Sherlock's ears metaphorically pricked up, and he scrawled on his scrap paper, holding his quarter-eaten mince pie between his teeth, a new note:

'WHAT IS?'

Still to Laura: "I mean, I live in an apartment." Y/N paused, listening to the reply. "Yeah, I guess you're right, it's only for a week. And he is an older dog, isn't he? He probably doesn't care about running around outside all the time anymore anyway."

Sherlock must have pieced together the general gist of the discussion and what was being asked of Y/N because he wrote hurriedly, standing up to show Y/N the paper:

'SAY YES'

"I mean, I'd have to ask my flatmate---"

'I DON'T MIND'

"---and my landlord."

More excited scribbling. Another almost-illegible note:

'SHE DOESN'T MIND EITHER'

Y/N was trying to hold in a smile. She's teasing now, although she doesn't know who she's teasing more, Laura or Sherlock. Of course she'd dog-sit Basil, he's probably one of her best non-human friends and has been since he was just a butter-coloured, chubby, bouncy ball of baby retriever. Just past the point of middle age, Basil has mellowed to a floppy, affectionate, not-so-bouncy ball of retriever, always greeting Y/N with a sloppy grin on his face and a firm face-licking. Well-trained and docile, he'd make an excellent (and very welcome) house guest. Not to mention Y/N always kind of wanted a dog, but she knew city life and her full-time job made her unsuitable for pet ownership. Unless that pet was a lizard. Or perhaps a goldfish. 

Sherlock had covered the room in two quick strides, coming over to where Y/N was standing and took her arm in his hand, giving it a gentle yet obviously desperate little shake. He'd turned the paper over to its blank side and written in massive print:

'PLEASE'

Unable to hold in a grin anymore, Y/N made a show of sighing as if she'd been reluctantly won over. "Fine, Laura, five days."

Sherlock did a triumphant jump for joy.

Laura said she'd be over to drop Basil off on her way to the airport later, and when they'd said their goodbyes (with many 'thank you's thrown in from Laura's side), Y/N ended the call. No sooner had she put her phone on the counter Sherlock exuberantly took the sides of her face and kissed her forehead, beaming, his emotions finally outrunning his self-discipline.

"We're looking after a dog?" He asked. He knew the answer, he just seemed to like the sound of its clarification.

Her brain like a bicycle someone had wedged a stick into the wheel of, Y/N had to blink a few times before she could answer. "Yeah. You're going to help me walk him, though, okay?"

Rather than grudgingly accepting, he looked elated. "I get to walk him?"

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him, still standing close enough to her to wipe a crumb from his cheek from when he'd shoved half a mince pie in his mouth so his hands were free to write. "God, Sherlock, who knew you were so obsessed with doggos? Didn't you once say you only bother with, what did you call it? 'Important' things?"

Sherlock's cheekbones sprinkled with a light pink blush, at Y/N touching his face or at the fact that he'd let slip a previously hidden part of himself, she wasn't sure. He stood up a little straighter, trying to slip back into his old metaphorical coat of nonchalant indifference. "I'm not obsessed. And I only bother with ' _relevant_ ' things."

Raising one eyebrow; "And yet you know all the words to One Week."

His blush deepened by a shade but he'd turned back to the table, hiding it by retrieving another mince pie. "Just tell me about Basil, please."

...

Laura and her new husband, Ted, dropped Basil off, quite literally; so eager to get to the airport that they barely slowed the car down to a complete stop. Ted leapt out of the passenger side with the dog's lead, bed, bowl, and a few toys bundled in his arms, pushed them into Y/N's, then dived back into the car, both occupants screaming thank yous from the rolled-down window. Y/N would have waved at them but the pile of belongings she clutched was like a stack of cards; she didn't dare free one hand in case it all came crashing to the floor.

She hadn't gotten a good look at Basil when he'd been hurried out of the Volvo he'd no doubt been enjoying a pleasant nap in the back of. He'd just been a blur of fur, darkened with age to a deep marmalade. Y/N looked down at him now, sitting patiently by her feet, wide mouth pulled back in a doggy grin, tongue hanging out even though it was less than warm. He looked just as cuddly as the last time she'd seen him and Y/N wanted to take his big dopey face in both her hands as soon as possible, so turned to go inside, and nearly bumped into Sherlock.

"When'd you get there?" She asked, but he wasn't paying the least bit of attention.

"Can I pet him?" He asked like a child seeking permission to unwrap a Christmas present.

Y/N couldn't help her lips tugging up into a smile at his expression. And the fact that he'd come outside in a dressing gown and pyjamas just to see a dog. "Yeah, he won't bite or anything, if that's what you mean." She watched with amusement as Sherlock stepped---with more respect than she'd ever seen him give a human being besides maybe herself and Mrs Hudson---up to Basil, who watched him curiously with his large, dark eyes.

Sherlock crouched down in front of him and held out a hand for him to sniff; the dog equivalent of introducing yourself. Basil roved his moist nose over Sherlock's pale, large hand casually several times then licked his fingertips, probably tasting remnants of mince pie. Sherlock's face split into a grin and he started petting Basil's coat, (much to Basil's obvious delight), submerging his hands into his fur when he got an encouraging tail wag in response.

If Y/N's arms were not starting to ache, and if a brittle little snowflake hadn't just flown straight into her left eye, she would have been happy to stand there and watch her best human friend and her best dog forever. It was like they were communicating via telepathy, or something, Basil's eyes now closed in what could only be described at absolute bliss as Sherlock massaged the bases of his ears, supporting the heavy weight of the dog's head with his palms. Y/N didn't want to interrupt them, to break this show of uncharacteristic (or maybe it was very characteristic but she'd never encountered anyone worthy of it) gentleness on Sherlock's behalf, but now she really was worried she'd drop something. 

"Can you help me carry something upstairs, please?"

"Oh, of course," Sherlock said apologetically, and Y/N held out some of her burden so he could alleviate her of it. But he didn't, instead, much to Y/N's shock, he scooped Basil---all thirty-two kilograms of retriever---up in his arms and stood to his full height, cradling the dog to his chest like an oversized, fluffy baby. He started carrying him inside, Basil beaming back at Y/N, thoroughly enjoying the ride.

"I didn't mean carry the dog!" Y/N cried at him, following behind and nudging the door closed with her foot. She had to do it with her foot because she had no hands free thanks to her less than helpful flatmate.

Sherlock ascended the stairs effortlessly, Basil's shaggy tail beating a happy rhythm into his waist and brushing the wall every now and again. "You should have been more specific."

...

Once they were in the flat, Y/N arranged Basil's water and food bowls in the kitchen and placed his bed near to the fire that purred contentedly away in the hearth. Sherlock carried Basil all the way to his bed and placed him upon it, his smile not having disappeared or showing any signs of leaving. Basil made several circles before flopping down with a slightly-old dog groan, which Sherlock found absolutely delightful because not nearly a second later he was pampering him again, rubbing his thick, glossy coat as he sat cross legged at his side.

Y/N had wondered if Basil would miss Laura and Ted---had wondered whether him howling in the night would be an issue---but now she didn't know why she'd bothered. He was clearly in absolute heaven, rolling onto his back to expose his tummy, begging Sherlock to extend his caresses to his undercarriage.

Which he did.

Because of course he did.

Y/N's new concern was getting Basil to return to his rightful owners at the end of the week. Sherlock and the six-year-old dog will clearly be inseparable within an hour, let alone five days.

"Like him, then?" Y/N asked, sitting down to join the two now firm friends at the fire.

Sherlock gave her a grin, still ruffling the luxurious mane of fur at Basil's neck. "Yes. Thank you for saying we'd look after him."

Joining in with the petting (Basil's eyes closed as he soaked up the attention), Y/N settled herself at Sherlock's side. They'd never had an animal in 221B---at least not while Y/N had been living there, and yet it didn't feel strange. Nothing was out of place, if anything, everything seemed to have slipped satisfyingly and easily _into_ place. There was a quietly euphoric and boyish joy emanating from Sherlock, so close she could smell his cologne, his dark fringe falling in his face as he sought out the places Basil liked to be petted the most. This joy was selcouth, unseen by Y/N before. Apart from twice; when he'd ground an entire case to a halt just so he could ask a man if he could befriend his alsatian (he and the alsatian are still in touch to this day) and that time Y/N had bought him a jar of Nutella (which she never did again because he consumed the whole thing in two days). 

It was no secret (to Y/N at least) that Sherlock Holmes liked dogs. And chocolate. And, now that she thought about it, cats and mince pies and---loads of things she hadn't expected. The cold, calculating persona he wore during cases (for clients, she now assumed) was so different from the man now doting on a retriever in her living room, and it made her wonder what other parts of his personality he kept hidden away. And _why_ he kept them hidden in the first place. Why does he act as if affection disgusts him, even though he kisses Mrs Hudson on the cheek every time he greets her? Put crime-solving on hold to say hello to a dog or a cat or even to follow a rare butterfly he'd spotted? Ask everyone, regardless of status, to call him by his first name, treating them kindly until given a reason to do otherwise?

"Shall we have dinner and then walk him? Or do you want to go while it's still light?" Y/N asked after several minutes of admiring...her new temporary pet? Or her friend? She didn't know, really. Maybe both, and the interactions that went on between them. People that struggle with humans tend to have a way with animals and Sherlock, it turns out, is living proof of this.

He turned to give her a hopeful, interested look. "You're coming too? I thought you said I had to walk him?"

"I did, but now I think it might be nice to go as well. If you want me to."

He smiled widely. "Yeah, I want you to. Can we eat first?"

...

Y/N and Sherlock often take constitutionals around London; out of boredom, for health reasons, or just as something to do. They'd talk about nothing, really, and yet somehow all those nothings meant more than so many somethings.

They'd bundled up in warm clothes, clipped Basil's lead to his bright red collar and set off into the night. There's always something...aesthetic about central London at night, something you can't truly understand unless you've been there, your shoes sounding on the often-uneven cobble of the streets. It had stopped snowing now, although it had barely been snowing in the first place, the ground slick and shining orange with the street lamps. Despite the cold, people were still everywhere, travelling in little clumps in and out of bars, restaurants, homes, all aglow with friendly, inviting chatter. That was one of the many wonderful things about London, Y/N pondered; one never feels alone. Even if you're not with anyone at the time you always know---can always feel---that there's life; someone pottering around the apartment to your left or your right, a shop still open at two in the morning somewhere, a long, people sitting in winding tube train sliding unnoticed below the surface of the city.

Sherlock's features had softened too, Y/N noticed in the corner of her eye, and she wondered if he was thinking the same thing. Or maybe he'd just been watching Basil trot along cheerfully in front of them, his long fur swaying with each step, giving him a jaunty swagger. The effect was mesmerising and Y/N blinked a few times when she realised Sherlock was saying something whilst frowning at his coat sleeve.

"We've looked after Basil for not even a day and I'm already covered in fur," He didn't sound angry, though. More fondly irritated, like a father whose child had drawn on the walls but it was a nice drawing so he didn't really mind.

"See!" Y/N exclaimed, stepping over a large puddle. "That's why I don't understand your deduction thing. If you looked at us, right now, you'd guess we own this dog. You wouldn't even need to see the dog, you'd just notice the fur on our clothes and _guess_ we have a dog. Or, like, you'll see someone with faded jewellery and guess they've worn it for ages, it's a gift from a deceased relative and they don't take it off out of respect---or something. But in actuality that jewellery is second hand and has no emotional value to the person whatsoever. You're just saying things that _could_ be true."

Sherlock fractionally inclined his broad shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. "Exactly. I _guess_. That's all it is, guessing. But the people paying me don't know that, for all they know I'm correct in my assumptions and that's all that matters."

Y/N almost stopped in surprise. "But---you say it all so confidently."

"I have to. Most of my job is just acting like you know things when really you don't know anything, not for sure."

Y/N didn't know whether she admired him for his performance, or felt horribly cheated. "So you just lie?"

"No. Well maybe sometimes accidentally when I'm wrong. But I'm not usually wrong so it doesn't matter. You didn't really believe everything I said when I deduced people, right?"

They'd come to a halt so Basil coils sniff a clump of dandelions that had broken free from the road verge, stuffing his nose into their yellow heads until he snorted a loud sneeze. Sherlock had turned to Y/N with a small hint of a smug smirk twitching at the corner of his handsome mouth.

Y/N's cheeks coloured, although she didn't know why. "No. Occasionally."

"I'm disappointed in you, Y/N," Sherlock teased, nudging her in her side with his pointy elbow. "I rather thought you were cleverer than that."

"So it's all just a trick?"

"It's not a trick. It's just guessing, then judging which is the most likely circumstance. Like that lady there." He tilted his head to a middle-aged woman across the street, exiting the driver's side of a red Volvo. "See how the front seat she just got out of is farther back than it should be for someone of her height? That suggests the car belongs to someone taller than her who usually has the seat farther back. She's wearing a wedding band and the car is a family-friendly model so we can make an educated _guess_ that that's her husband's car and she's borrowing it for a short errand."

"How do you know it's a _short_ errand?"

"Well, if it was a long one she'd move the seat forwards, right? But why bother to mess up the way her husband likes it if she's just popping to the shop?"

The lady had retrieved a bag from the boot of the car and was now entering the squat little corner store Y/N had barely noticed before. Sherlock had noticed it, obviously. Y/N nodded. "Okay, I get it. But you could be wrong. She could have just bought the car and not got around to moving the seat forwards, the seat adjuster might be broken---"

"Yes. But my conclusions are the most likely, so if I was investigating her and had to deduce her for a client I'd stick with my house-wife-on-an-errand-to-buy-nappies-for-her-small-child hypothesis."

"What makes you think she's getting nappies?"

"I don't only think she's getting nappes, I know she's getting nappies."

Sputtering with disbelief: "I bet she's not, you can't possibly know that."

Basil had finished with the dandelions and was now eager to continue his exploration of his new environment but Sherlock didn't heed his wishes, and caught Y/N when she started walking.

With a light behind his eyes, that confident look that both annoyed Y/N and made her fall a little bit in love with him, Sherlock asked: "What are you willing to bet?"

Y/N chewed her lip thoughtfully. She should know better than to doubt her friend's phenomenal abilities, and yet he had just stood there telling her it's all some elaborate guessing game, so maybe she actually stood a chance. "If you win, if she comes back with nappies I'll go to that shop and buy you some Nutella."

"You're on." He held out his gloved hand for her to shake and she did, knowing she'd already lost and was now mentally counting the change in her wallet.

...

The lady returned to her car with a jumbo-sized bag of Pampers under one arm and Sherlock just gave Y/N a grin that made her roll her eyes so far back she could see her brain. "Okay, how did you know? I know you're dying for me to ask."

"No, I'm dying for you to pop over there and get me that Nutella."

"Tell me how you did it first."

"I shouldn't need to, it's obv---" noticing her expression, Sherlock---smartly---shut up very quickly. "The back of the car has one of those child booster seat things, I saw it when she opened the boot. There aren't very many reasons why someone would rush to a shop this late in the evening, so, using what clues are available to us we can draw to the most likely conclusion that she's got a small child and has run out of something. What is vitally important for small children and easy to run out of? Food and nappies. It's unlikely their whole house has completely run out of food, and given the time, a meal could probably wait until morning. Thus, nappies. Now, my Nutella, please." He was giving her that stupid proud smile and Y/N raised her eyebrows at him.

"You think you're really clever, don't you?"

"I have my moments."

...

Y/N had bought Sherlock his winnings and their walk continued now that they weren't watching and betting on middle-aged women buying Pampers. Sherlock had handed Basil's lead to Y/N and removed his gloves so he could scoop the chocolate spread from its jar with one finger, placing it between his lips and humming in appreciation at the taste.

He noticed Y/N staring at him and asked around a mouthful of chocolate goo: "What?"

Y/N sighed in the same way Sherlock had sighed at Basil earlier; in fond disapproval. "I'm walking a dog with Detective Winnie The Pooh."

"Winnie ate honey, not hazelnut spread."

"I've seen you eat honey with the same amount of gusto." Y/N's mind filled with the memory of her flatmate at breakfast a few days ago, his pink lips stained with glistening sugary syrup. It had been both an erotic and disgusting display, not that he'd meant to display anything, and it had required all of Y/N's willpower not to look like she wanted to lean over and kiss that sinfully teasing sweetness right off his face. She'd then spent the rest of the day thinking herself pathetic.

"I like honey."

"I know."

Sherlock offered Y/N the Nutella pot. "I always liked the idea of keeping bees, then I'd have my own honey. You know those white hives you can get that look like houses? I always wanted one, I was going to get one for my seventeenth birthday but then we found out Mycroft is allergic to the proteins in stings."

"It doesn't seem fair that you should miss out. He could have just stayed away from them."

"That's what I said!"

...

"Do you think when a great dane looks at a chihuahua it knows it's also a dog? Or do they see them as different species?" Sherlock pondered out loud. They'd planned to walk in a circle, encompassing several blocks, but, like most of their walks, had decided to branch out and go further afield. Now they were meandering up and down weaving roads, letting Basil---who was very much in the lead---decide which routes they took. There was no chance of them getting lost because Sherlock knew his city better than the lines on the palms of his hands.

"I guess they work mainly by smell rather than sight."

A long pause while Sherlock mulled this information over. Then:

"...Do you think dog breeds _smell_ different?"

Y/N furrowed her brows in thought. "I'm not sure. How would we test that?"

"I have no idea."

It was properly night time now and Sherlock was tipping his head back to observe the sky. Y/N had thought he was mourning the stars smothered by a thick layer of light pollution, but then she realised she'd been completely wrong because he said suddenly:

"Glass and concrete are made of sand. So...if you think about it, all these buildings are just really big sandcastles."

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him. "What was in that Nutella?" which got her a good-humoured chuckle, the sound low and mellow and warming Y/N's chill-kissed skin with delightful tingles.

"Nothing. I was just thinking about it. Although, realistically, I guess everything is made out of one fundamental ingredient so you could say that about anything. Books are tattooed tree slices, clothes are strings of plants---"

Unable to hold in a laugh: "You need to stop."

"I swear that's what it says on my family crest, but in Latin."

...

"I had that dream again."

They'd stopped so Basil could explore the multitudinous array of scents a phonebox has to offer. Y/N reached up to wipe the smudge of Nutella she'd spotted on Sherlock's cheek and his cheekbones went slightly pink at the contact. Or because he'd been walking around with Nutella on his person.

"Did she have a face this time?" Y/N inquired with interest.

"No. Well, I think she does _have_ a face but I just never get to look at it for some reason. And this time the bedsheets were blue."

"I can't believe you don't even know what the person in your own sex dreams looks like."

Basil had finished with the phonebox (or maybe just decided that it is disgusting) and they picked up their pace once more, now strolling past some pretty-looking houses lined up and identical. Like those paper dolls you can make by cutting folded paper.

"I don't know what she looked like but she sounded like Meg Ryan."

Intrigued: "You like Meg Ryan?"

Sherlock's lips twitched at one corner into a bashful smile because they were analyzing his love life (or lack thereof) under a metaphorical microscope. "No, but remember that film where she was in the restaurant with Billy Crystal and she started pretending to have sex? My brain seems to be using that as a reference."

"Why?"

"Give it a little credit, it's doing its best with the litter material it's got."

"You've never...? Or have you just only been with really quiet people?" Y/N couldn't help wondering how anyone could be quiet whilst being with Sherlock Holmes, and quickly dipped her head, hoping her hair would cover the hot flush of colour that was spreading over her cheeks. There's those silly, juvenile thoughts again. Maybe she's sick?

"No." 

"Huh." She didn't know what to say to that. What so you say to that?

He turned his head to examine her expression through curious, narrowed eyes. "You sound surprised, why are you surprised?"

"It's just you're very attractive so it's surprising no one's ever....you know."

He hummed. Y/N couldn't place her finger on in what way. If she didn't know any better she'd say disbelief, but that couldn't be true. No one thought higher of Sherlock Holmes that Sherlock Holmes.

They were silent for a while, watching the street of pretty houses dwindle off into regular, towering apartment buildings. Y/N recognised this area and realised they'd started to loop back towards Baker Street. She wondered if Basil had led them that way or if somehow they'd naturally gravitated towards it like birds coming home for winter, then almost started as Sherlock said:

"When Harry met Sally!"

"What?"

"That was the film. When Harry met Sally. Where meg Ryan was in the restaurant."

Unable to hide her obvious surprise: "You've seen when Harry met Sally?"

"Yes."

"Did you like it?"

Sherlock said nothing and Y/N took that to mean yes. Fan of romcoms. Y/N added that to her mental list of unexpected Sherlock facts. The list had lengthened significantly in a very short time. 

"Hey...maybe it means something."

"What? When Harry Met Sally?"

"No, your dream. With the faceless lady. Maybe it means something."

He stared ahead, watching Basil weaving over the path, following invisible trails they couldn't see. "Dreams don't mean anything. And I told you, she has a face, I just never get to look at it."

"They do mean something sometimes."

Smiling, Sherlock arched a dark eyebrow at her. "What about that dream you had where you were shaving a cat? What did that mean?" He'd been so busy giving Y/N a mocking, amused expression that he almost walked straight out into the road. Y/N caught his arm with well-practised ease, pulling him back onto the path. She has to do that a lot. And it's nearly always because he's giving her some kind of look.

"That dream didn't mean anything, but yours might."

"Like what, dare I ask? That Saturn has aligned with Jupiter so now is a good time to mingle at work as someone new and exciting shall enter your life, as will a hobby you haven't tried before but should?"

"Shut up, Mystic Meg, I don't mean like that. Although the mingling might be a good idea, maybe this is your body's way of saying it wants to meet someone."

Sounding absolutely appalled: "I don't want to meet someone!"

"It seems your subconscious disagrees." Y/N did wonder why she was saying any of this. The idea of sending her crush off to be with any woman that was not her sent her stomach into a nervous knot (the wave of guilty self-disgust tightening it to an uncomfortable degree) but it wasn't this time. Maybe she felt safe, immune, because she knew he wouldn't follow her advice. Although she had no idea why. He acts like a married man staying faithful, and yet he isn't married, he isn't even dating.

...

Arriving back at the flat was like slipping into clothes that had been warming on a radiator. The faint smell of pine hadn't left the furniture since Christmas, that sweet tang hanging in the air along with a pleasing heat from the now gently smoldering fire.

Twenty minutes later, Y/N had showered and slipped into bed, surrounding herself with thick blankets and pillows. Basil had followed close at her heels dutifully, and now stood by the bed, placing his head on it as a way of seeking permission, staring up at Y/N with those large begging doggy eyes. Not that it was necessary; Y/N, without hesitation, gave the duvet a pat, inviting him onto the mattress, and his tail wagged appreciatively as he hauled himself up with surprising agility.

Propped against the headboard, Y/N settled in with the intent of watching a film, her hand moving absently over Basil's temple, his long, butterscotch coloured body draped leisurely along the length of Y/N's outstretched legs. Despite the lingering thought that her bed will be coated in fur, the company was appreciated.

The movie hadn't been playing long, given the inordinate amount of time that had been required to find one Y/N felt like watching in the first place. And films always have those insanely lengthy credit scenes before the actual feature. By the time anything actually happened, Basil had dozed off and was already fully submerged in what appeared to be a rather vivid dream, the occasional, sleep-riddled bark beginning in his lungs then dying in his throat. He's imagining he's chasing something, Y/N guessed, because his legs would twitch every now and again, muscles feathering in his snout, nose hurriedly sniffing at nothing.

His ears flicked as if bothered by a fly when there was a tentative knock at the bedroom door.

"Y/N?" Sherlock called through the wood, a chink of warm light slicing the room in half as he opened the door a fraction so he could hear her reply.

"You can come in, it's fine," Y/N gave him a genial smile as he entered and made a beeline to the bed to pet Basil, who'd woken up now and rolled himself over to expose his tummy. This now seemed to be his typical greeting saved exclusively for Sherlock. Maybe because Basil sees him as entirely trust-worthy. Or maybe he's is just really good at tummy rubs.

The dog's tail had quickly begun beating the duvet and he grinned lopsidedly up at Sherlock as he approached, hopefully anticipating some more attention. Sherlock gave him what he wanted, saying as he did so:

"I was going to ask if Basil wanted to come and sleep in my room, but he looks more than happy here."

Y/N giggled and Sherlock furrowed his brows at her, unable to help his own lips tug up at the corners.

"What?"

Waving a hand dismissively, Y/N flushed a little at her childishness. And at the fact that Sherlock is in her bedroom. She began helping Sherlock stroke Basil's exposed belly as he rolled onto his back for them to do so. "Basil is such a human name it sounded like you were asking a man we---for some reason shared---to your bedroom."

Sherlock laughed and Y/N was sure she'd lit up like a Christmas tree. 

"No, I wouldn't ask a Basil to my room. A _Basilinna_ maybe. Is that a name?'"

"Maybe somewhere." 

Although Sherlock was currently petting Basil with affection, Y/N had noticed his face soften into a slightly disappointed frown when he'd realised he'd be spending the evening alone. It twisted her heart a little, as if guilt was trying to wring it out. She said quickly: "Basil is happy here, but you can join us if you want."

Like most turning points in life, this one was completely unplanned, unexpected, and would only be recognisable as important much further down the line. And, like most turning points, it happened completely by accident.

The offer---the _idea---_ has slipped smoothly from Y/N's brain and out of her mouth. She'd handed it over as casually as she would a spare pencil or a tissue. But now, now that Sherlock had taken his gaze off Basil to regard Y/N, her brain registered that what she'd done carried a little more weight than she'd initially thought. Not that she had thought. She hadn't been thinking when she'd _invited Sherlock---_

"On the bed?" He looked pleasantly startled. His pale eyes flicked from Y/N, to Basil, then to the space he'd occupy if he accepted the invitation, and Y/N suddenly felt like tugging her shirt collar away from her neck which had suffused with a hot blush. Sherlock wouldn't even be able to reach Basil if he sat with them on the bed; Basil is on _Y/N's_ side. So he wouldn't be joining _them_ on the bed, he'd be joining _Y/N_ , tucked up amongst a mass of blankets to watch a film, not even an educational film but---

"You don't have to if you don't want to."

"No, I want to."

...

There's something humbling about seeing someone---anyone---on a bed. It can be easy to forget that some people need to do things like sleep and eat just as much as the rest of us, but the sight of them surrounded by feather-filled duvet somehow reminds us that they're not only human, but also delightfully more so than we previously anticipated.

Sherlock had climbed onto the mattress sort of like how someone who'd never surfed before climbs onto a surfboard. Not because the mattress dipped under his weight, setting him off balance, but because the bed isn't his. He seemed to be weary of where he's allowed to go, the space he's allowed to occupy.

He settled himself neatly into his allocated spot.

He kept his long limbs to himself, tucking his bony knees to his chest.

It made Y/N wonder how many women's beds he'd been allowed on, then she remembered his earlier confession and realised this may be his first.

She didn't want him to be self conscious. Not just because it made her chest ache at the thought that he didn't feel he could relax, be himself, but because, mainly, it was really weird. The awkward first stages of friendship had passed Y/N and Sherlock by long ago, and yet, Y/N could have sworn that recently some of it had returned. They should be at a point where watching a film on one of their beds is just...something they do. Not something that makes them both sit there like bashful teenagers, blushing and keeping their eyes on the TV screen, scared to look at one another.

It took thirty-seven minutes for Sherlock to allow himself to melt into a more comfortable position, letting his legs unfurl along the length of the bed. Unlike Y/N's, his hands had nothing to do, so they settled onto his stomach, fingers interlacing with one another. Y/N mentally willed Basil to get up and relocate to the space between her and her flatmate, just so he had a _reason_ for being there. Him wanting to pet a dog stirred up less emotional turmoil than the thought that he wanted to be here to be with _Y/N._

Although, she was getting used to it now. Watching a film. On a bed. With her friend. Her sinfully attractive friend. What business does he have, being that pretty? It's nighttime, the end of the day, he should be groggy and weighed down by a need to sleep. Not sitting there with his perfect body all lithely stretched out like a Roman sculpture, hair just as thick and full as it was when he'd styled it this morning, mouth twitching when something amusing happens on screen. He looks as if he's trying to be gorgeous on purpose but he isn't. That's just his face.

Sherlock's eyes don't settle on the center of the television screen, Y/N noticed as she let her gaze drift discreetly over to admire the rest of him. They sort of dart about, taking in sections at a time, then probably piecing them together in his mind, she assumes. It must use a lot of effort to watch a film that way, she thought, fitting fractions of each scene together like they're clues at a crime scene. Does Sherlock see everything as a crime scene and apply the same techniques to movie scenes? Or does he see everything as a movie scene and apply his way of consuming television to crime scenes? Y/N made an educated guess that he'd been watching movies before he'd been solving crimes.

"You're staring at me," his baritone had dropped an octave from so long spent in silence, Y/N could almost swear she felt the vibrations of it thrumming through the springs in the mattress. It tingled up her spine.

She cleared her throat, averting her eyes back to the TV just as he turned his head to confront her curiously. He'd _sounded_ curious, of course, she couldn't see his expression. He might be affronted by her ogling, for all she knew. "Sorry."

"Do I have something on my face?"

Y/N had to turn that question over in her mind several times before it made sense. No, he had nothing on his face, nothing but whimsy as he let himself be absorbed by what he was seeing on the tele. Surly he knew the only reason anyone would ever stare at him is because he's beautiful? "No. I was just lost in thought." Not exactly a lie; the way his cheekbones and the dim bedside light cast soft shadows over his cheeks _was_ very thought provoking.

"Are you tired?" He flicked one slender wrist over to read the face of his watch. He always wears it on the underside of his arm, which seems counter-intuitive. It would be much easier to read on the back. Or maybe his wrists are so skinny it just sort of...falls the wrong way---

"Y/N?"

"Hm?"

Chuckling a mellow laugh, his smile fond and soft-centered and caring: "You were lost in thought again. I asked if you were tired."

Y/N didn't know if she was tired. Her brain wasn't, not really, because she hadn't done anything that day to warrant fatigue, and it wasn't even that late. But they'd settled further into the bed as the film ran on, slumped and curled up, Sherlock's warmth at one side and Basil's softness on the other, so she'd grown drowsy from the pleasantness of it all. There's something calming about Sherlock's presence. Maybe because he's a man. Bigger than her, stronger than her. Or maybe because she loves him. Why deny it?

She had to fight the urge to lean against him.

"Yeah, I think I'll go to sleep."

She'd announced this plan and yet no one moved. Well, Y/N moved; raising an arm to switch off the television, but it fell straight back onto the covers. She was still running her fingers through Basil's coat, his fur silkier from the thousands of strokes of her palm.

Sherlock was the first to kick things into motion, metaphorically speaking. He looked too content (and a little timid, all of a sudden) to kick _anything_ right now, so maybe 'nudged' is a more accurate description. 

"...When you invited me to join you and Basil...did you mean for the night? Or just for the duration of the film?" His voice almost had the sweetest edge of uncharacteristic hopefulness, one pale, slender hand rubbing a duvet corner between finger and thumb. A nervous habit. Fiddling with things. Y/N had seen this man wrestle a gun from a serial killer's bloodstained hands. Now she was seeing him bashfully ask if he'd misread some signals, sitting there in his pajamas that were a little too short around the ankles, the curls at the back of his head slightly flattened from where he'd rested them against the headboard. Two sides of the same, complex, layered coin. 

"Do you _want_ to stay?" She'd said it slowly. She wanted the answer to be a positive one, and yet the thought of spending another eight hours so close to his sinewy body sparked a release of something close to adrenaline. How would she sleep when he's so near she can smell his cologne? Why would he even want to stay? Because his bed is cold and starchy? Because he's too tired to stumble back downstairs? Because he wanted company?

"Yes."

...

Y/N and Sherlock took turns using the squat little en-suite bathroom that branched off from Y/N's room, then reconvened besides the bed. Due to his original shyness, Y/N assumed that Sherlock would need some coaxing to get him beneath the covers, a formal invitation, or something. He didn't seem the type to just...make himself at home.

But apparently he is because Y/N's first sight upon leaving the loo with her mouth still vaguely tasting of toothpaste was her flatmate happily nestled under the thick winter duvet. She couldn't help the smile that suffused her face, playfully chiding:

"Look at you all tucked up in my bed."

He just grinned at her, his dark hair surrounding his head like a colour-inverted halo. The lightest shade of red touched his cheeks and the tips of Sherlock's ears as he watched Y/N get in next to him, something of an exhilarated light brightening his pale eyes.

Basil's toffee-coloured body hadn't budged since he'd done that thing dogs do where they circle a point several times then plonk themselves down like they're trying to wipe out the dinosaurs. His jaw had fallen open so his unnaturally long, pink tongue could loll lazily over the side of the bed. Y/N had wondered about taking him down to the street to let him relieve himself before the long eight hours of night, but he didn't look like he wanted to stand, let alone walk down two flights of stairs, so she let him be. Maybe she should try to move him over a bit, though? He's taking up a lot of room, room that has suddenly risen in value now that she was sharing it with a certain attractive-yet-off-limits detective.

She cleared her throat. "I usually sleep on this side, but we can swap if you want to be next to Basil."

He surprised her, though, by saying happily: "I'm fine here, thank you."

Y/N sneaked one last look at the pale oval of his face on her pillow before she leaned over to turn off her bedside light. He looked fine, too. Fine as in content and fine as in attractive as Hell. How'd he get there? In her bed, she means. Y/N had always wanted him to be there, but gave up even entertaining fantasies about it after he'd made it abundantly clear that he sees using a bed for anything other than sleeping as pointless. Now he's under her covers after sitting through an entire movie, walking a dog to nowhere, and helping Y/N cook dinner.

He really has been different recently.

Softer.

It's nice.

Y/N's thoughts were interrupted as Sherlock snaked one arm out from the duvet to turn off the bulb on his side, draping the room in darkness. The sheets rustled like heavy leaves as he got comfortable again, a sigh slipping from his lungs. Without the light, Y/N could hear it better, hear everything better. A car crawling down the road outside. A distant siren somewhere. Basil's breathing, the occasional scuff of his paws. _Sherlock's_ breathing, so much longer and deeper than the dog's. His chest expanded with each one, of course, tugging the duvet fractionally in his direction, and Y/N followed the movement of it in her mind, feeling his body heat slowly reaching out to her side of the bed.

They laid in silence, their eyes slowly becoming used to the dark, shapes materialising with the weak light of the streetlamps that seeped through the gaps between the curtains and the wall. Y/N hadn't heard Sherlock turn over. He's probably also still laying on his back, staring at the ceiling. Y/N wasn't ready to sleep either; having him so close was like an electric current, feeding her nerve cells with a steady flow of electrons.

"He's a very well behaved dog," Sherlock's voice broke the pregnant still of the room. With every hour his baritone seems to thicken with tiredness. Maybe the low vibrations of it will counteract the electrifying tingle of his presence.

"Probably because his owners are so nice," Y/N answered absently. "Nice people always have nice dogs."

"That's true. You can tell a lot about a person from how they treat their pets."

Y/N hummed, several real life examples lazily raising to the surface of her mind like milk in tea. The snappy little old lady down the road who owns a snappy little old chihuahua. And that man a few doors down who spends many hours just staring out the window, and his cats who also spend many hours just staring out the window. "Laura and Ted are just like that. Like, Basil is a reflection of their personalities. They're also gentle and quite quiet and good with people. It's rather sweet, actually. They worked at the same primary school, that's where they met." Sherlock didn't need to know this. She just thought it was saccharine. Something to talk about. "They became friends and decided to get married if they were still single when they're fifty." 

"What, like a marriage pact?"

To Y/N's surprise, he actually sounded interested. She heard the silken sliding sound of his curls against his pillow as he turned his head to look at her. Not that he'd be able to see her, anyway. Maybe just the outline of her nose, the pool of streetlamp collected at her chin.

"People actually do that? They didn't look fifty when they dropped off Basil."

Y/N pushed herself onto her side so they were facing each other like children at a sleepover. Children that had been awake too long, their conversation dwindling to an end. Although theirs had only just started. His voice really was soporific. "They're not fifty. They fell in love and Ted took Laura to Paris and proposed."

There was another long silence as Sherlock mulled this over. Or thought about something completely different. You never really could tell, with him.

Apparently he hadn't mentally changed the subject because he asked: "...Have you made one? A marriage pact?" There was a teasing note to his tone, a mischievous edge as if he was about to make fun of her, but something else was there too.

"No," Y/N answered, matching his light-heartedness. "Have you?"

"I've never had a girlfriend, let alone someone that would agree to marry me one day," his teasing note had died and, like an ugly phoenix, self depreciation rose from its ashes.

Y/N thought about that for a second. The fact that he'd never had anyone casually kiss his cheek as they send him off to work. Bring him breakfast in bed after making him moan to high heaven the night before. Tell him they love him, make him _feel_ loved. That must do something to a person.

Unless he's not interested in those sorts of things. 

Although, Y/N guessed, by the tone of his voice, that he was. "Would you even want to marry someone, though?" she asked gently. She hoped he'd say 'no' because then she wouldn't feel compelled to wriggle to his side of the bed and give him an unsolicited (and probably unwanted) cuddle. Although, Y/N knew that that's what he needs; some kind of relationship. Not even destined to end in marriage, just a one amazing night with someone patient enough to help him unwind. Someone who makes him feel valued not just as a human being but as a male. 

The annoying thing is, Y/N knew she could do it. She could be that person, easily, she'd like to be that person. The image of her giving Sherlock what would be his first kiss skittered through her mind, his eyes all alive with awe, lips and cheeks flushed an excited scarlet, and she pushed it back down. 

"I mean...not now. Not soon. But...it's stupid forget it."

"No, I'm curious now, what were you going to say?"

"...Only that, well, you know how I grew up in the countryside?"

Y/N nodded. He doesn't talk about childhood that much. Or any of his past, really. Getting to hear about it, a glimpse into what made him _him_ is a rare treat, in Y/N's mind, and the opportunity is as delicate as smoke. She didn't want to frighten him off. "Yeah?"

Encouraged by her interest, Sherlock continued, finding some kind of momentum. "I always thought I'd... kind of like to go back there one day. Not even to the county I grew up in, I just mean somewhere open and full of fields and little country lanes. The ones where they kind of go to nowhere and then when you try to find them again another day you can't."

Kindly, because there's that boyish joy he'd let slip earlier again:

"That's not stupid." It's not. That's Y/N's dream too, if she's honest with herself. Succulent homegrown food, flourishing honeysuckle crawling up garden walls, rolling English hills. London is wonderful, busy, happening, and alive. The country's beating heart. But there's no denying that the UK isn't about high-speed city life. Crumbling cottages with real log fires and unpaved roads leading to friendly little villages is where most Britons want to end up, even if they do gravitate towards skyscrapers in their younger years.

Y/N had to wrangle in her thoughts because Sherlock was talking again. She wanted to listen. He's never had anyone treat him like a lover, but at least he has people to treat him like a friend.

"I always liked the idea of having a dog and...a wife." He'd added 'wife' as if he'd had to push himself to do so, to uncover that particular part of him. Y/N knew his cheekbones were dusted pink in the dark. "We'd have a garden. And a car. When I moved to London I didn't really miss those things, but now I'm starting to. I'd work from home and only take important cases so I could be...with my family most of the time. One day... maybe I'd have children."

His tone dampened suddenly, the dreamy spell of his thoughts vanishing as if a brittle wind had blown in from the window and whisked them away. "I mean, I _liked_ that idea when I was a kid... but now I know that's not really something I can do."

Y/N's mouth opened and closed several times before she managed to push out: "You could always adopt---"

Sherlock cleared his throat and said hurriedly: "No, I don't mean I can't... _make_ children. I mean all of it."

Y/N's brow furrowed. It's curious how we still bother to arrange our features in expressions, even when the person we're talking to can't see them. "I don't understand."

Sherlock hesitated. "You know... I can't be normal because---well, because I'm not normal, am I?"

"No. You're better than normal. That doesn't mean you can't get married or have a family. If the court of law had any bearing over who can have children, there'd be a lot less people in the world."

Sherlock made a noise in his throat. "I mean more...finding someone who'd do that stuff with me is impossible. I...lied earlier when I said I'm not interested in meeting someone. I'm not keen on the thought of meeting someone _new_ , that bit was true. Not any more. When I was a teenager I liked the idea of dating but then no one liked the idea of dating _me_ , and time went on and I got to about thirty and I just...gave up."

Y/N didn't know what to do with this bare, vulnerable admission. She kind of wanted to move up close to his side and tell him that someone _does_ want to date him, _she_ does. But that was obviously a stupid fantasy---literally that; a fantasy--- so she opted for pressing her lips together.

He sighed and moved onto his back again. He probably thought the conversation was over, that he'd sullied it with awkwardness, because Y/N took a long time to formulate a reply. She wanted to say the right thing, hand him some kind, comforting, words to warm his cold, undernourished heart.

But she couldn't think of anything. Nothing that he'd believe, anyway, nothing that didn't sound like empty promises. So she settled for: "I don't think you should give up."

He did that sound in his throat again, a sort of dismissive grunt. Another siren wailed in the distance, a symptom of an insomniac city, and, although it had never bothered her that much, Y/N suddenly found herself wishing for silence. Silence besides maybe the shy whispering of nature. Like the susurration of a tree, perhaps. Or the wind singing her to sleep.

"That's my dream too, you know," she said quietly aloud.

"What is?"

"A cottage in the countryside. Being married...children. A dog, wild flowers, homegrown vegetables---all of that. I want that too. I mean, like you said, not right now but...later. One day."

When Y/N got no answer she assumed it was because Sherlock had fallen asleep. She moved onto her other side, facing Basil now, sort of curling her body around his, which he seemed to like because he pushed his head back enough to press his skull into her chest.

...

That's how Y/N stayed until her mind ebbed into unconsciousness. At one point, the mattress dipped as Sherlock shifted up behind her, tentatively taking her waist in one large hand. Y/N didn't stir---didn't push him away, anyway---so he let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding in and let the rest of his body move up to encompass her back. 

She let him.

The point of his nose nudged the top of Y/N's spine as he tucked it amoungst her hair, finding refuge in the smell of her shampoo. It tickled when he sighed, and, although Y/N was half asleep, she knew there was a smile on his face.

Of course he's a cuddler.

Why did she expected anything different?


	2. Chapter 2

At 1:37 am it began to rain. Sherlock was awake to hear it. He's one of those people that struggles to submerge himself in subconsciousness; not necessarily an insomniac, but close. He can't switch his brain off. It's always thinking.

When it started to rain at 1:37 am, he was thinking about three things.

The first was about how the sky didn't seem to be raining, just leaking; like a tap you can't properly turn off no matter how many times you turn it. He can't usually hear the rain from his bedroom; there's nothing for the droplets to land on and the window is too tucked away for them to be thrown against the glass. Y/N's bedroom window is around the front of the house, though, facing the street. Two floors below, and a little to the side, is Speedy's Cafe, the stretched fabric of the striped awning out the front acting as a giant drum.

Sherlock had never slept in this room before, even when it was unoccupied. He'd barely been in it at all, really, in all the years he's lived here. He'd thought it best to let his flatmate, whomever they were at the time, have the best room in the apartment. He'd hoped the view and pleasingly airy space would make up for the various shortcomings of his personality that they'd have to put up with while living with him.

The second thing he was thinking about was how he couldn't get to sleep (which, ironically, wasn't helping him achieve his goal). This usually bothered him---those endless hours crawling by---but this time it didn't, due to the third thing he'd been thinking about:

Y/N.

Sherlock layed, curled around her back for quite some time, trying to shut his multitudinous thoughts down for the night. He'd held his breath when he'd moved up against her, waiting for the inevitable disgusted scolding, the hands pushing him away, the humiliating stammering as he tries to explain himself. He'd stammer not because of embarrassment (although God knows he'd have his fair share of that too) but rather because he didn't actually have an explanation planned. He'd tried to formulate one, carefully slotting some words together to form sentences, but once he mentally tried to test them out they collapsed and buckled like poorly-designed railway tracks. There was no excuse, no reason for cuddling up to his friend besides the fact that he wanted to.

But he hadn't needed an excuse, thankfully, because Y/N had just silently let him. She even---to Sherlock's delight---pushed her body backwards slightly, mouldering the curve of her spine into his lanky figure. He continued to hold her long after she'd fallen asleep. Partly because he didn't want to let go yet, and partly because Y/N was sort of unconsciously gripping one of his arms so he _couldn't,_ even if the mood had taken him.

Which it didn't, even when the arm he'd snaked under Y/N's pillow went from prickly with pins-and-needles to so numb he forgot he had fingers.

...

When morning came you couldn't really tell. The inside of Y/N's room, despite the curtains being closed, had the same tenebrosity as the outside. A stodgy brick of cement-coloured clouds had hardened in the sky, hanging low and heavy, threatening to fall out of the air all together.

The sound of a car honking its horn at a cyclist several streets away woke Y/N up roughly an hour before the time she would have prefered. Usually she's immune to the restless muttering of the city, but she'd fallen asleep with a head full of grassy knolls and countryside cottages, so maybe her brain thought the sound didn't belong.

She'd also fallen asleep wondering what it would be like to be married to Sherlock Holmes, so maybe that's why it didn't come as a shock to her when she realised she was up against his chest; in her dreams, she'd been there too.

He was laying on his side, facing her, and she had one arm draped lazily over the curve of his waist as if, at some point in the night, she'd tried to get him closer (she had, and it had made him smile). He had both his arms around her, one under her head and the other over her hip, bent at the elbow, his forearm travelling all the way up her back so his hand rested somewhat level with her shoulder blades. Y/N felt as though he were some kind of plant that had grown around her in the night.

She decided to sleep in a little longer, if she could (because wouldn't you?) and deal with the inevitable awkwardness of waking her friend later.

...

'Later' came around much faster than Y/N would have liked. The length of time between the car horn and 'later', in fact, was a mere seventeen minutes. Seventeen minutes of Sherlock's steady heartbeat at Y/N's forehead where it lay against his sternum. Seventeen minutes of his torso softly inflating and deflating with each long, drawn out breath. Seventeen minutes of how it felt to simply be held by him. Granted, she had her arms around _him_ as well but he was definitely the one doing the holding.

'Later' didn't so much 'come around', it snuffled and nuzzled the shell of Y/N's ear.

She almost giggled, the sensation startling her---does it make her a bad dog-sitter; that she'd forgotten Basil existed for a few minutes? Sherlock was all Y/N had been able to focus on, had _wanted_ to focus on. Nothing else existed to her, not even the large ball of fluff at her feet. He'd rolled over in the night, then rolled over again and again until he was at the foot of the bed, which is where he remained.

Until now. Now he was awake and wishing he'd gotten up to use the dog-version of a loo before everyone went to bed. He prodded Y/N again with his nose, exhaling a little huff of air as he did so and she batted him away, although she knew what he wanted, and knew that she'd have to heed his wishes at some point. She mentally willed Basil to settle back down, to hold on for another five minutes, but of course he didn't, he just got more and more restless.

Y/N didn't want Basil to wake Sherlock. She hoped she could maybe pad downstairs, let Basil wee up against a lamppost, then slide back into her friend's embrace as if it was her favourite sweater. From experience, she knew Sherlock was capable of sleeping the sleep of the dead. He struggles to _reach_ unconsciousness but has no trouble remaining that way. She really doubted that once he'd woken up she could suggest they spend the morning snuggling and get a positive answer, but maybe she could leave and return without him knowing?

Carefully, she extracted herself from Sherlock's tangle of limbs, at which point Basil perked up considerably and leapt from the bed. He didn't seem to understand the shushing motions Y/N sent his way when they were in the hall, because he sprinted down the stairs so fast Y/N worried his front legs wouldn't be able to keep up with his back ones. Then his claws clicked chirpily on the hardwood floor of the corridor. Then he almost tumbled down the other set of stairs, and barked at the door as if that would somehow speed up the process of unlocking it.

When Y/N returned to her room, of course, Sherlock was awake. He'd opened the curtains and was leaning against the radiator, watching the fat little raindrops chase each other down the window pane.

Y/N guessed he'd only just gotten up because his hair is still more fuzzy than curly, and his pale eyes reflected the sight of the sky rather than absorbed and processed it. Y/N couldn't help noticing how, now that he's standing up rather than huddled on her bed, the elastic of his pyjama trousers has long since expired, the band hanging low around his hips. She didn't know where to look, his hair made her giggle, but anywhere near that slither of alabaster skin visible just below his belly button made her blush.

She decided to simply not look directly at him, and started picking out some clothes for the day instead, explaining as she did so:

"I had to let Basil out." She wasn't really sure what else to say, she just knew she didn't want him to think she'd sneaked off---as if she was ashamed, or embarrassed, or something. She wasn't any of those at all.

He gestured to the window, or, more accurately, the curtains, to show her he hadn't been watching her intentionally. "I saw. Did you get wet?"

"I took an umbrella. Basil didn't, obviously, so I put him by the fire to dry off."

Sherlock's lips tugged into what could be mistaken for a smile. "You make him sound like an item of clothing."

"Well, he _would_ make a good fur coat."

That _did_ make Sherlock smile, and he chuckled as he stretched his arms above his head with a yawn.

 _"If I had muscles like that,"_ Y/N thought, _"I wouldn't wear long-sleeved shirts and suit jackets."_

...

After some more pleasantries like the usual 'did you sleep well?'s and 'what do you want for breakfast?'s, Sherlock departed to his own section of the apartment to get ready for the day. Last night's cuddle wasn't mentioned, nor was the unexpected fact that Sherlock had wanted to spend the evening watching films in Y/N's bed. Y/N didn't mind, really. There wasn't much to say about it. If he had wanted to leave at any time he could. He'd willingly spilled his soul about one day wanting to have a family, Y/N hadn't pushed him to. And it didn't _have_ to mean anything when he'd held her close as she drifted off to sleep. Their relationship had advanced to a new level of trust. The reason why, or how, does not need to be examined.

They walked Basil to Regents Park after breakfast. It was still raining but they didn't mind; they held out the palms of their hands to feel the raindrops. They beaded on Sherlock's coat, clinging to the fibers until he looked like he was covered in tiny orbs of glass. As he walked, some would fall off and shatter on the damp pavement beneath his feet, adding to the general sogginess of the London streets.

Basil didn't collect droplets, he absorbed them, the liquid seeping between his strands of fur steadily and persistently until he was dragging the added weight of a small paddling pool along with him (not that this---somehow---made him any less energetic).

Y/N brought a tennis ball and they took turns throwing it as far as they could, the luminous green of its nylon shell growing duller every time it bounced wetly on the gravel pathways or rolled through the saturated grass. Despite his days as a puppy being several years behind him, Y/N and Sherlock's arms tired long before Basil's legs. They'd hurl the (now slightly sticky) ball over a hedge, amongst a sodden flower bed, even uphill, and Basil would eagerly bound off before it had even left their hand.

"I guess they're called 'retrievers' for a reason," Sherlock had mused while they watched the tenacious hound disappear into a mass of shrubbery for several seconds, then reappear with the ball (and and a few leaves) held proudly between his jaws. He brought it back and dropped it triumphantly in Sherlock's palm, grinning when he pitched it for what had to be the thirty-fourth time.

"Careful you don't throw it in the lake," Y/N warned, and he gave her a look. One of those sort of sideways smirks, all narrowed eyes and one corner of his mouth tweaking upwards.

"Do you think if I threw it in the lake he'd go and get it?"

Y/N hummed. "Probably. Don't retrievers have webbed feet? Or is that Labradors?"

"I think all dogs have webbed feet, theirs are just bigger which makes them better at swimming." And then he said the words Y/N knew had been coming: "Shall we test it?"

They'd come to a stop, well, Sherlock had stopped and---as if they were joined at the hip---Y/N stopped too. The lake stretched out before them, freckled from the rain and reflecting the steely grey of the sky. Y/N chewed her bottom lip. "Isn't that mean? It's cold."

Sherlock shrugged his wide shoulders. "If he doesn't want to go in he doesn't have to. Dogs fur is insulated. We'll have to wash him when we get home anyway; he's soaked. Do I really need to persuade you?"

Y/N has always been a little more lenient with Sherlock's (often questionable) schemes and experiments, her curiosity so often getting the better of her, as it was doing now. The mental image of a dog paddling about in a pond, sending flurries of afeared ducks into the air was rather amusing. "Okay, fine. But if he doesn't go in, _you_ have to."

"Why?"

"To get the tennis ball."

Sherlock weighed his options. He must have a lot of faith in retrievers' innate love of water because he said, sounding irritatingly confident: "Fine."

The unsuspecting Basil trotted over, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth as he once again pressed the manky ball into Sherlock's hand. This time, though, rather than launch it ahead of them down the trail, Sherlock hurled it straight into the lake.

It hit the water with a satisfying splash, a brightly colored raindrop amongst thousands of smaller grey ones.

Then he turned to Basil to see what he would do. Y/N wondered if Sherlock was mentally crossing his fingers, willing the dog to chase after the toy, for the sake of his new trousers.

Or she would have done, if she had time to. Basil raced off, throwing himself with what appeared to be delight into the water, sending a small tsunami smashing against the swollen banks.

Sherlock cheered triumphantly, and Y/N crossed her arms in pretend irritation. Well, it was mostly pretend. She'd wanted to see him wade into a lake in January.

"Who's a clever boy?" Sherlock praised as he patted Basil's drenched head when he'd hauled himself out of the water, the drowned tennis ball in his teeth. Basil grinned up at him, knowing for a fact that _he_ was a clever boy. His lips were pulled back in a grin and stayed that way as he shook himself, sending Y/N and Sherlock running in opposite directions. People always hold one arm up to shield their face when a dog shakes. No one knows why. It doesn't help.

...

Water leaked from the sky and from Basil's fur. The conclusion was mutually reached that he'd have to be _smuggled_ into the flat so as not to give Mrs Hudson some kind of aneurysm.

"You could carry him again?" Y/N suggested, mostly joking, as they stood on the doorstep staring down at the bedraggled dog before them. There were still bits of pond weed clinging limply to his withers.

Sherlock had, of course, said no to this idea, and they'd settled on simply leading Basil up to their apartment and praying to the gods that he didn't decide to shake himself along the way. Luckily, Basil is, after all, a Clever Boy, so seemed to have grasped the gist of the situation and held off from shaking himself dry until they were all three huddled in the loo next to Sherlock's bedroom. It would now need a good wash, but that would have to wait.

Basil didn't want to get in the bath, despite his apparent love of water. He just stood next to it, resting his head on the lip and watching the contents expand as the taps ran. Sherlock eventually lifted him in, at which point Basil looked slightly irritated, as if the whole ordeal was beneath him intellectually.

"He looks like you when Lestrade tells you to fill in witness forms at the end of cases," Y/N giggled, getting a single-syllable hum from Sherlock.

They were kneeled by the bath, using cups from the kitchen to pour water over Basil's fur. They had considered the shower--- it being one of those ones attached to a long bendy hose---but they didn't want to risk it. Basil suddenly deciding to exit the bath and run rampant around the apartment they could handle. Basil suddenly deciding to exit the bath and running rampant around the apartment while a shower head is also on the loose, they probably couldn't.

Laura and Ted had included some doggy shampoo in the multitudinous supplies they'd pressed into Y/N's arms what felt like weeks ago. The bottle was transparent, the pink liquid inside smelling pleasingly of 'clean'. Y/N squeezed a generous amount of pink onto Basil's back. He gave her a look that, had he been a human, would have made Y/N send him a formal apology card and some flowers.

"You need a wash too." Sherlock had turned to Y/N and cupped her jawline with one large hand, giving her a smile that could easily be mistaken for fondness.

Y/N wondered, for one strange, magical second if he was going to kiss her.

But he didn't, he ran his thumb over her cheek, smudging some dried flecks of pond water she'd been freckled with when Basil had drenched them earlier.

When Sherlock let her go, Y/N had to mentally put herself back together. Something about the gentleness of his touch, and the way he'd looked at her, had made her fall apart in his hand. 

Trying to act like she hadn't suddenly realised what Roberta Flack had been singing about in her song ' _The_ _First_ _Time_ _Ever_ _I_ _Saw_ _Your_ _Face_ ', Y/N forced a light-hearted laugh. "Well, I'm not getting clean in _that_." She gestured at Basil's bathwater, which, by now more closely resembled the lake he'd been in earlier rather than a bath.

She didn't know it, but Sherlock had suddenly felt the urge to playfully ask ' _Why? What's wrong with it?'_ and jokingly pick her up as if he was going to dunk her in with the dog. He didn't act on it, though, just tried to hold in a laugh and turned his head away so she couldn't see the colour of his cheekbones.

...

Drying Basil turned out to be more of a challenge than cleaning him. He seemed to think Sherlock smothering him with a towel was some sort of game, because everytime the fluffy material enveloped him he wriggled free with his mouth pulled back in a beaming smile, and started running around the room. Eventually Sherlock managed to scoop him up and held him this time, rising to his full height.

"What if we use a hairdryer?"

Basil looked mildly afraid as he was carried to Y/N's room and placed down in the center of it. He looked _properly_ afraid as she picked up the hairdryer.

Sherlock noticed. "I'll hold him, you dry him." He arranged himself to do so and gave Basil's shaggy coat an encouraging pat.

"Thanks for the help, by the way." Y/N slid the plug into the wall socket. Basil's ears pricked up as if he somehow knew what was going to happen and didn't like it one bit, and Y/N almost chuckled at the sight of him. He was sort of huddled in Sherlock's arms. Arms that Y/N had seen on more than one occasion punch a man out cold. She suddenly wondered why he was here comforting a damp dog rather than out in an alleyway somewhere doing _that_. "Don't you have a case you'd rather be doing? Lestrade always has a few the police are stuck on, even if they're easy it's something to stave off the boredom."

He looked up at her, confused. "I'm not bored. Why? Do you not want me to help?"

"No, I do." She smiled at him, his fringe still slightly damp and hanging limply in his eyes. She wanted to reach out and tuck some of it behind his ear. "I just wanted to make sure you're _okay_ with helping. Today has been very...domestic."

Sherlock gave Basil's back a stroke, but he wasn't looking at him when he said:

"And yet I've enjoyed it."

"Me too."

...

Once Basil was used to the unnaturally warm air of the hairdryer and the obnoxious roaring sound it seemed to insist on making, he actually started to enjoy it. He opened his mouth and closed his eyes like he would while sticking his head out of a car window, liking the sensation of wind tugging his ears---or something like that.

Drying Basil's fur took what felt like an inordinate amount of time. The water seemed to have become a part of him, seeped into him as if he was paper mache rather than a dog. At first he'd stood up, ready to bolt if this new machine tried anything shifty. Then, once it had earned his respect by gently warming him to a pleasing temperature somewhat similar to fresh toast, Basil had deemed the situation safe enough for him to take a seat. Now, a good while longer than twenty minutes later, he was spread on the floor, a fuzzy pool of melted butter, a goofy grin plastered sleepily under his muzzle.

Y/N sighed, standing up and switching the hairdryer off (which had started to smell a little too much like burning for her comfort). "Well, that's one side done."

Sherlock stood too, wincing as he shook out one knee, trying to nurse some blood back into his oxygen starved veins after so long of sitting cross legged. His job had mainly involved ruffling Basil's fur enough for the air from the hairdryer to reach the deeper layers of fluff ('why does he have so much fluff?' had been asked about six times in the last ten minutes). His shirt and black trousers were flecked with gashes of butterscotch-coloured hair. "You're going to have a dog-shaped damp patch on your carpet."

Y/N sighed, more from exhaustion than irritation. The damp patch would dry eventually. As would Basil's other side, maybe not until North and South Korea join together again, but some day. "If we removed all of the fur from your clothes we could make a rug." She brushed one hand over the material at Sherlock's stomach but it didn't help, just sort of...spread the fur around a bit. Then she snatched her hand back as if it had been shocked, red suffusing her face. She needs to stop casually touching him (even if it feels heavenly).

Although, he didn't seem to mind. "Do we have a lint roller?"

...

Sherlock played his violin that afternoon while Y/N gave Basil a thorough brushing. Basil had picked the spot; his basket by the fire, and Y/N had knelt beside him, angling herself enough to be able to watch Sherlock play.

He has a habit of hanging his head when he's just navigating day to day life; as if avoiding people's eyes, watching his shiny Oxfords, searching for clues---or something. But, as soon as he slides his violin from its case, his spine straightens to its full impressive length, like it's a sheet someone had run an iron over.

Y/N likes to watch him play.

Some people make themselves useful by giving their flatmates home cooked meals.

Some give them their skills, fixing broken boilers and unclogging the sink.

Some give them use of their expensive video gaming consoles.

Sherlock gives Y/N music.

Granted, he doesn't give it _to_ her. Probably. She just often happens to be around while he's making it, and snatches a little for herself. Grasps it, plucks it from the air as the melodies snake around her like ribbons as he plays.

And he really _can_ play.

He settles the delicate instrument under his chin, arranging his equally delicate fingers along its narrow neck. Its wood, designed for projecting sound, does so with every movement, the hollowness of it echoing softly as he gets comfortable, brings the sinewy bow into position.

The violin is the smallest stringed instrument, and it looks somehow even smaller tucked neatly in the crook of Sherlock's neck, the hazelnut brown of its body contrasting with the hard white line of his jaw. He stands, looking out at the sopping streets below, the wide rectangle of the window framing him nicely, shoulders parallel to the ceiling, his lean figure all clean-cut angles and straight lines.

It would be poetic to describe the strokes of the bow as that; strokes. Smooth, sliding with ease back and forth. But they're not, they're not supposed to be; the violin relies on friction to create sound. Thus, as Sherlock drags the two wildly different types of string over each other they grate together, a proud, powerful note peeling from the contact and curling into the air with a flurry of resin.

It's a long note, but the next is quicker, brisk flicks of Sherlock's wrist pulling the bow back, forcing it over the strings, pads of his fingers teasing the neck of the instrument with instinctual ease. His fingers are calloused on that hand, Y/N has noticed before. Worn harder not from manual labour but gentle caresses of a tool as he attempts (and succeeds) to bring it to life.

He doesn't even have his eyes open anymore, and this is Y/N's favourite part of watching her flatmate play. Not just because his closed eyes means she can now watch him fully without his knowing, but because there's something almost spiritual about experiencing someone get so lost in something.

 _"I can feel sounds,"_ Sherlock had once told Y/N, tentatively, as if he didn't think she'd believe it. _" I think it's a type of synesthesia. Sound is physical for me, I can't just hear it I can feel_ _it too."_

Y/N _had_ believed him, and does so even more now as she sits there, surrounded by the song he's quickly filling the room to the brim with. It skitters around the walls, slides over the furniture. He wasn't following a sheet, and, judging by the way he delivered each note, Y/N could only assume it was improvised. He swayed a little as he played, letting the music decide where it wanted to go, where it wanted him to put his fingers, how long it wanted the strokes of the bow to be.

After a little while, the room fell silent.

Y/N lifted her head. "Why have you stopped?"

"I'm hungry."

...

For dinner, they ordered takeaway, which was consumed at the kitchen table. Sherlock and Basil had had a sort of competition to see who could hear the delivery person approach the flat first. Basil won, obviously, letting everyone on the street know that there was an intruder amongst them by expelling a string of unnecessarily loud barks. 

He shut up quickly when he realised said intruder brought gifts of food, and switched from guard dog to what Y/N had named The Good Dog Routine. Following close at her heels like a butler ready to take his next orders. Gently lick her palm, or, as she knelt down to get some plates from a cupboard, her face. Then, as she sat down to eat, he gives her those large begging eyes.

Which, for the sake of his health, she ignored.

"Last night was nice," Sherlock said after some time. He'd finished his meal and was now nibbling on some naan bread.

Y/N tried to look as if she hadn't just been so surprised by this statement that her fork halted halfway to her mouth. It _had_ been nice, but she didn't know he'd also found it nice. For some reason she's assumed that last night, watching a film together, their conversation, and falling asleep in each others arms, would be one of those things that had happened but was never repeated, or even spoken about. Like an accidental kiss or an embarrassing confession.

"Yeah, I enjoyed it."

This made Sherlock's shoulders loosen and a relieved smile brighten his face. Hopefully: "You did?"

Y/N nodded enthusiastically, because her mouth was full. That was probably for the best; if she had been free to express how _much_ she'd enjoyed it, he'd definitely be too freaked out to ever even consider doing it again, let alone continue this conversation. 

Sherlock took another bite of his naan bread. He seemed to be skirting his way around the burnt bits, or the parts where the dough got thin, focusing on the puffier, softer regions of the flatbread. He'd accidentally cut it with his teeth into the shape of a dragon, Y/N thought, glad she was chewing because that made it easier to hold in an amused laugh.

"Would you want to do it again tonight?"

Y/N swallowed, pulling her mind away from naan bread dragons. "What? Watching TV in my room?"

Sherlock hesitated before he answered, maybe realising this is the last chance he has to pretend he'd been talking about something else. He looked like he was mentally weighing his options. He could say: 'No, I meant walking after dinner', thus keeping his reputation intact but his body starved of the affection it so obviously craves. Or admit to enjoying a cozy night in and risk damage to the emotionless-loner persona he'd worked so hard on, but get to cuddle up to his friend. "Yeah."

Y/N grinned. "Okay." She reached a hand down to ruffle the now more-or-less dry fur on Basil's wide doggy head, which he was resting on her lap. He just huffed at her; he hadn't forgiven her for not sharing her food with him. Or even letting him lick the plate. "That's a good idea---Basil seems to like the attention."

Sherlock looked momentarily confused. 

He hadn't suggested it for _Basil's_ love of attention.

…

  
  


Sherlock joined Y/N on her bed quickly this time, rather than hovering next to it like the entire thing was something expensive he was afraid to break. He petted Basil's shaggy head then climbed onto the mattress with the same ease he'd have getting into a taxi or curling up in his favourite armchair. His cheeks are pink, still, but with more of an excited flush than a bashful blush as he stretches his long legs before him and gave Y/N a tentative smile.

She had propped the pillows up along the headboard, making them into a plush backrest, which Sherlock settled against, his shoulders becoming engulfed in their embrace. Y/N's bed is comfier than his, and always slightly aglow with warmth. He thinks that's because her duvet has 'down' on the label, but that's got nothing to do with it; what he's actually enjoying is the sensation of another life being so close to his own.

"Here." He'd brought something with him, a purple box dappled with pink spots, the familiar logo and framed white font peeking out from under his thumb. "I got these for Christmas and haven't gotten around to eating them."

Y/N raised her eyebrows. " _You_ never got around to eating chocolates? Who are you and want have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

His cheeks coloured but Y/N could see he was trying to fight off a smile. "Shut up. Do you want any or not?"

"Ah, he's back."

If Sherlock was a child, he definitely would have stuck his tongue out at her. Instead, he started picking the sticker that held the two halves off the box together off with his nail, and, once he'd peeled it free, stuck it to Y/N's forehead.

She blinked in surprise, not that he noticed; he'd placed the Cadbury's Milk Tray on his lap and opened the lid like a book, revealing the plethora of treats sitting unsuspectingly in their black plastic tray. He took a plain chocolate cube and popped it in his mouth. He didn't chew it, just sucked it a little, letting the chocolate melt around his teeth.

Y/N watched his tongue push against the insides of his cheeks as he arranged the chocolate in his mouth, for some reason unable to look away. 

Eventually, he chewed whatever was left and swallowed, Y/N's gaze being draw along the stretch of his throat and down into his pyjama top. She waited for him to offer her one, but he didn't. He just took another for himself; one of the ones that have a layer of white, milk and dark chocolate, which he ate separately, biting off each one with the rocky edg of his front teeth.

Eventually, Y/N realised he might have expected her to just take what she wanted, so reached out to do so---

But he moved the box slightly to the left just before her thumb and forefinger could close around---well, anything. Her empty hand looked like one of those claw machines that had just failed to grab a prize.

She narrowed her eyes. "I thought you said I could have some."

With the hand not inconspicuously clamped to the box, Sherlock had taken the television remote and started flicking through films to watch. Feigning nonchalance: "Well, I'm not sure I want to share now." But the corner of his lips kept twitching like it wanted to turn up into a smirk.

Y/N matched his pretend moody pout, her expression a cocktail of playful determination and mock contempt as she tried a different approach; simply snatching a chocolate.

Once again, Sherlock pushed the box out of her reach. Y/N huffed at him. "Sherlock," she warned, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at the sound of his name on her tongue. "Stop mucking around." She of course didn't really want him to stop---she's rarely seen him muck about, but the few times he has (all in much more recent months) have been glistening jewels in the crown of her memories.

"I'm not mucking around, you implied I was greedy. You don't _deserve_ any." Sherlock had run out of lap, now, so for Y/N's fourth attempt he'd had to start lifting the box into the air, _just_ out of her grasp. She could have sworn he was doing that on purpose; making her feel like she was about to reach the box then putting another centimetre between it and her fingertips just as she lunged for it.

Basil had been laying like a peaceful sphinx at the end of the bed, but opened his eyes now to watch Y/N and Sherlock's impromptu game curiously.

"What if I said sorry?"

"Well are you?" He's not even trying to contain a smirk anymore; it curled his lips and lit his eyes as he watches her perseverance with what could only be described as amusement. She'd moved closer to him on the bed, the mattress dipping with their concentrated weight until Y/N was leaning into Sherlock's side, both their arms outstretched over the lip of the bed. Y/N knew he was doing _that_ on purpose; his grin is obvious in the corner of her eye, little chuckles bubbling up from his chest every now and again. She could feel them; how his torso moved when he laughed, his muscles shifting about as he tried his best to keep them upright.

Y/N didn't want them upright, she'd concluded that her adversary being pinned to the bed would give her an advantage. Smiling to herself, now, she retracted the arm reaching for the box, and, before Sherlock could utter his confusion at her surrender, she planted both hands on his shoulders and gave him a shove. 

With a startled little yelp, he fell onto his back, Y/N---having also lost her balance---falling with him.

She hadn't _meant_ to end up sprawled on over Sherlock's front like butter on toast.

That had been a pleasing happenstance.

He'd been very close to falling right _off_ the bed; from his shoulders upwards there was nothing supporting him, the trunk of his body tensing below Y/N in an effort to keep his arm (and the Milk Tray) well out of her reach. Not that she was thinking about the Milk Tray at that second.

It felt different being this close to him now because they were both awake. Not as in conscious, but as in just...not sleepy. The lights are on. They can see each other, see all the places where their skin would be making contact were it not for an exhilaratingly thin layer of material. They can see each other's faces, their expressions. He was grinning up at her. His eyes kept flicking around her eyes to her lips---or maybe chin, she couldn't tell. They're not shyly _cuddling_ anymore, they're wrestling, parts of them scuffing and bumping into each other.

And his body feels softer than Y/N had expected (even though it's solid with the exertion of making him into a sort of human gangplank). She'd been surprised by that last night, too; how...alive he is, how malleable, the little bit of soft at the base of his back. The onset of stubble at his chin and down his neck, rough and gritty. Each bump of his ribs. Not because she didn't see him as human, but because when she'd moved in he'd been all jagged bones. Hollows. Like a length of wire bent into the shape of a man. Not just in his appearance---even though, when he sat still for long enough it had sometimes been difficult to tell if he indeed did have a pulse---but in personality too. He'd drift about like the air he walked through was slipping between gaps in his bones, brain and body not managing to interact with reality unless it physically grabbed him and gave him a shake.

Now he wasn't like that. Like any of it. His hollows replaced by something, Y/N wasn't sure what, but it was good. He'd gone well over a year of getting whatever he'd been missing before, whether that be healthy eating habits, a steady sleep cycle, or simply a friend---and it showed.

Y/N managed to right herself, pushing her body away from the distracting warmth of Sherlock's and up into a sort of crawling position. Her eyes darted from her flatmate's to the chocolates suspended by his arm now conciderably more within Y/N's reach.

Sherlock realised what she planned to do and wriggled below her, aiming to escape by worming his way over the side of the mattress and onto the floor, to no avail. Crouching over him, Y/N managed to climb her hand along Sherlock's arm and close it on the corner of the box, letting out a triumphant 'Ha!' as she drew it to her chest, sitting back on Sherlock's stomach.

She grinned proudly down at him and he stared moodily back. "I'm _not_ sorry, and you _are_ greedy for not sharing with me."

Her victory was short-lived.

She felt something take her waist, two large, strong hands that pushed her suddenly to the right, clamping her to the bed as she shrieked, a strange mixture between a scream and a laugh. Sherlock had sat up and expertly swapped their positions, his knees either side of Y/N's hips as he released her middle, only to catch her flailing wrists and pin them above her head.

He wasn't trapping her. Not really. His grip at her arms bordered on tender, resting his weight on his legs rather than using it to hold her down. If she wanted she could shove him off, call a stop to all of this, but she didn't because it was fun and because every time he touches her it's like her nerves are awakening for the first time, and he's got this smile---

She squirmed, laughing because having him on top of her was making her giddy, and he gave her a wolfish smile that died as suddenly as if it had been shot.

"Where are the chocolates?" He asked, swelled pupils roving the duvet around Y/N's head for the box.

"You think I'll just hand them over to you?"

"No, I mean are they with you or Basil?"

"Oh, right. I don't actually know where they are, I think I dropped them."

Sherlock let Y/N go and climbed off her, turning to face the bottom of the bed. Basil had been sprawled there, watching Y/N and Sherlock's tusull with contempt, like he was 'too old for this nonsense', but he isn't there anymore, the bottom of the bed is empty besides his calling card; a dog-shaped indent in the puffy sheets now prickly with loose hairs.

Y/N hauled herself up, the fear of accidentally poisoning her friend's dog enough to distract her from whatever being pressed against Sherlock's chest had awoken within her humiliatingly treacherous body. In the process, caught sight of a butterscotch-coloured column of fluff making its way along the side of the bed. Quickly, she scrabbled towards it and swiped the box of chocolates just as Basil nosed at one Y/N knew to contain a subtle pink sweet strawberry filling. Several had fallen out of their little compartments and bounced onto the carpet, and Y/N made sure to gather them all before sitting back on the bed Basil, staring up at her grumpily from the floor.

"You go to all that trouble to get them, then loose them," Sherlock quipped as Y/N resumed her position on her side of the bed.

"It's hard to hold onto them when a six foot man is pinning you to a mattress," Y/N answered smoothly. The tomato colour Sherlock's cheekbones had turned went unnoticed. Y/N was preoccupied with choosing a chocolate; her well earned reward. She wanted to make a show of closing her eyes at the taste and humming, to rub her success in her friend's face---a sort of victory lap---but she was still a little out of breath. God knows why. All they'd done is roll around on a bed.

Ah, that's why.

"Are you going to share your spoils?" Sherlock asked, bringing Y/N back to earth.

She pursed her lips. "I don't know if I feel like sharing now." But she nudged it three centimetres in his direction anyway.

He took a chocolate and removed the top of it, bringing the rest away from his mouth, trickling strands of caramelised sugar stretching between his hand and lips. He's very close to Y/N, she realised. So close she can see the reflection of the bedside lamp on his lips where he'd moistened them. His teeth part and his pink tongue darted out to catch the treat and draw it into his mouth, eyes lighting with obvious joy at the taste. The television screen flickered in his pupils. If Y/N would lean a little closer she'd be able to make out the picture.

Lost in a rather inspiring speech the hero is giving, Sherlock's hand gravitates back to the chocolate box to retrieve another. This one, too, gets stripped apart, reduced to its fundemental elements that are then individually consumed. He seems to prefer eating things that way; shelling them, nibbling away at their harder outer casing, the softer, now unprotected, center a reward for his efforts. The long, paper-coloured column of his throat bobbed as he swallowed. That's covered in reflections too; not as defined as the ones in his pale eyes and bitable lips. Just a haze of light caressing him softly, shifting with every new scene and creating new shadows, highlighting things Y/N hadn't even concidered beautiful before. Like the fluffy, tufty curls, much shorter than the rest, licking the tops of his ears. Or how his nose, from the side, has a delicate, ever so slight upwards point. A scalene triangle.

"You're watching me again."

Y/N almost jumped, his voice cutting neatly through the quiet between them. She blushed. "Sorry."

"I don't mind. I just don't understand why."

Y/N didn't want to tell him it's because he's pretty. She should have done, because it probably would have made him smile, and his cheekbones to go pastel pink.

But maybe that's why she didn't want to tell him. He'd shyly say something like _'Really? You think I'm pretty?'_ , which would only make him seem _more_ pretty, and then what would she be? A hopeless romantic pining pathetically over her best friend? Well, she was that already, but _he_ mustn't know that.

So she said instead: "You eat things in a certain order. Well, you do everything in a certain order, but you eat the outside of things first then the inside last."

This _also_ made Sherlock's cheeks go pink. "Everyone does that. Like biting the skin off Jelly Babies, or seeing if they can strip all the chocolate off the biscuit part of Chocolate Fingers."

Y/N's lips twitched as she remembered watching him try to do the latter whilst they were driving to York to investigate a murdered lawyer. The trip was long and, during Y/N's shift at the wheel, Sherlock had managed to remove about eighty-percent of the chocolate before the biscuit shattered between his teeth and fingers. The company they'd rented the car from probably thought they'd had a child on board due to the sheer amount of crumbs. "Yeah, but you do it with _everything_. Like turning a slice of cake on its side so you can cut the frosting out of the middle, which you save for last. And when you have salad you eat each thing by itself, ending in tomatoes. Or when you have a custard cream---"

"Okay, okay, I get it."

"It's not a bad thing, it's just a thing."

"I've always been like that. Favouring routine...and stuff. I think it runs in my family. Mycroft got the worst of it; he used to line up all his toys in size order. Not to keep his room tidy but because he enjoyed it. He had their names written down in a notebook and he'd check them off if they were there---like how school would take the register---or get very upset if one was missing. They didn't usually go missing because he never played with them. Although, I guess, in a way, that _was_ his version of playing. I wasn't much better; my idea of fun was taking all my books off their shelves then putting them back again.

" _Was'_? I saw you do that last week," Y/N laughed, giving his side a small nudge with her own. He pushed her back, their bodies swaying like a sleepy newton's cradle.

When their momentum dissipated, Sherlock said quietly: "I can't believe you remember all that stuff." Had she called him pretty by accident after all? Because he's flushed a bashful shade of pink and he's got this tentative smile---

Y/N shrugged her shoulders. "You're not the only observant one around here."

"Evidently."

"And it's endearing." That sounded too close to what she had tried so hard not to say, so she quickly buried it under more words: "You know; entertaining. Not in a weird way but just... different".

"I'm glad I amuse you," It was sarcastic but he was still smiling, a gentle curve to his sugar-stained lips.

...

If you leave two scoops of ice-cream next to each other in a bowl on a hot day, they will, given enough time, melt into each other. In this sense, Y/N and Sherlock's bodies were like ice cream. And, like ice cream, it had happened so slowly no one had really noticed.

They were leaning against each other, but, given his extra several inches, Sherlock was leaning against Y/N a little more than she was leaning against him. He'd brought his legs up, too, bent at the knees, and let them fall partially onto Y/N's lap. He seemed to be subconsciously seeking her touch as if she was a heat pack and he was a man dying from hyperthermia. Y/N didn't mind. She wanted to put her arm around him. She wanted his head to fall onto her shoulder.

"I was thinking about what you said yesterday." Sherlock's voice sounded so much deeper up close. Maybe because Y/N could feel it as well as hear it; the low vibrations seeping from his body and into hers, bleeding like ink through paper. "About how some people agree to move in together when they reach a certain age---if they're not in a relationship."

There was a pause, as if he was shuffling through cue cards in his head, one of them having gone missing. He found it, eventually, and cleared his throat a little, checking his vocal cords still worked. If he had a microphone, he would have given it a little tap with the end of his finger then winced as it screeched with feedback. "And I was thinking about what we were talking about yesterday. Our...our _dreams_ , or whatever you want to call them. Of living in the countryside. I couldn't help noticing that they're...quite similar. Identical, in fact. It makes sense, then---it's worth asking---would you like to do that with me?"

Y/N couldn't see his expression, or his eyes. Maybe, at the moment, he prefers it that way. When she didn't answer right away, because her mind was swamped with pleasing images of cornfields and winding roads, he hurriedly added:

"We already live together. It would be just like it is now but...you know, not in London."

"...Are you talking about a marriage pact?" One pro to not being in a position to read Sherlock's facial expressions is Sherlock not being in a position to read Y/N's. She was positively glowing as she asked: "Between us?"

This is Sherlock's last chance to metaphorically jump ship, but he doesn't take it. Instead he swallows and pushes himself upright, turning to face Y/N and earnestly meeting her eyes. "Yes." His shoulders are set in an unmoving line, but something in his face softens as he glances at Y/N's lips and find them to be smiling.

"You'd really want to do that with me?"

"Yes." That's about as much eye contact he can muster, because his gaze retreats back under his fringe. "If you want to. With me. I'd understand if you didn't---"

Embarrassingly eagerly: "No I'd like to."

He perked up considerably.

Y/N: "Are you sure you wouldn't get bored of me? What I mean is; do you really _want_ to? You don't need to be married to have a cottage in the countryside, you can have that alone."

Sherlock seemed to take a second to arrange some words in his head. When he spoke them it was as if he was hanindg them to Y/N, pressing them into her hands and waiting for her reaction: "When I was a child I had blue bedroom walls."

Brows furrowing: "Where are you going with this?"

"Just listen," his tone soothed her confusion as if it was boiling water that simply needed to be removed from the hob. "The blue was nice, but I put lots of posters up anyway I preferred it _with_ the posters." He's thumbing at the corner of the chocolate box with one hand, the cardboard becoming fluffy and worn. "You're the posters. A countryside cottage is _nice_ , but nicer with someone to share it with. Why do you think I have a flatmate?"

Y/N inclined her shoulders in a shrug. "Because you can't afford rent alone?" Now that she thought about it she knew that to not be true. She'd seen the cheques some clients write him; prestigious law firms with stolen documents that need retrieving, rich upper-class couples suspecting their partner of cheating, etcetera. Once their little problem is solved they hand over a figure with, frankly, an inordinate amount of zeros.

Sherlock shook his head, a few of his curls jumping with the movement. Y/N wanted to reach out and submerge her hands in them. "No, I can afford it. And even if I couldn't, Mycroft would jump at the opportunity to humiliate me by lending whatever amount I needed. My point is; I _like_ having a flatmate. Granted, I've liked some flatmates more than others," his cheekbones go pink at this, a shy smile playing on his handsome mouth, "But I choose to live with someone even though I don't need to. It makes the metaphorical plain wall more interesting."

Y/N regarded him. "And---if you can't find anyone else, of course---you think _I'll_ make it more interesting?"

The subtle golden light from the bedside lamp at Sherlock's side pooled in his palms as he kept his eyes lowered to them. "Yes." It was strange seeing him so unsure of himself. He's charting unexplore territory, metaphorically poking the ground with a stick to make sure it was safe enough to take the next step. He glanced sideways at Y/N and added quickly when he saw her bare eager smile: "But...before you agree to anything, I meant what I said yesterday about... kids. I'd like to have all of it. The whole family thing. I would want children."

Y/N blinked and Sherlock's almond eyes widened as he realised what he'd implied.

"No, I don't mean _you'd_ have to---I don't expect _you_ to---with me. What I meant was---we could adopt."

This time Y/N shook her head. She didn't know it, but Sherlock wanted to submerge his fingers in her hair. "That's not why I went quiet."

Curiously: "Oh?"

I just couldn't help imagining you raising a child."

He wilted. "Oh. Yeah, I know."

Y/N's brows met in the center of her forehead as she narrowed her eyes at him like he was a math problem she couldn't figure out."Why do you sound sad? I don't mean it's a bad idea. Not at all. You'd be a wonderful dad."

"I would?" He asked it as if he was stepping onto a rug she could easily swipe out from under his feet.

"Of course you would." Y/N said. She just said it, not with any particular tone, her voice hadn't risen slightly at the end, stressed any syllables. She just said it. Like it was a fact.

Sherlock looked elated.

It made Y/N smile. "I only hesitated because I got a little lost in mental images of you trying to teach a two year old the periodic table."

A tentative giggle bubbled up from Sherlock's chest, his mouth turned up in a proud little grin. He's glowing. Y/N wondered if it was the television reflecting off of his delicate alabaster skin again, like the sun's rays off the moon, but it can't be; the television is dark with a scene set during the dead of night. It's just him, and its wonderful. Like a moth to a flame, Y/N wanted him to touch her. With his hands, or his lips, or the tip of his nose as he softly nudges at her during a hug. 

The room is still, apart from Basil's occasional twitches as he dreams. Stretched out to his full length, he's almost as long as the bed, his moist nose hanging off the edge of the covers. It was depressing to think that he was someone else's dog. He seemed more at home here than 221B's actual residents; like a friendly ghost who'd been around long before them and would still reside in these walls long after them as well.

Y/N was so distracted watching his fuzzy chest flow up and down as he breathed that she hadn't noticed the credits rolling by on the television screen. Films used to give her a welcomed escape from reality; the rectangle of flickering pixels like a portal into lives that were not her own. But now, recently, she finds her need to escape from reality has dissipated. Worn off, as if her body had fought it and won, like a flu-virus slowly eliminated by her white blood cells. She focused on the warmth of Sherlock's side against her own. Of the shape of his arm fitting neatly between their bodies, the solid knot of bone at his elbow, the smooth edge of his hip. Why would she want to submerge herself in pixels when her life is full of this? With a smile, it occurred to her that she hadn't been paying attention to anything the TV had to say.

"...Did you really mean it?" Sherlock asked. He hadn't been paying attention either, it seemed. What a waste of electricity. "That you think I'd be a good father?" He had to move along the bed to reach the TV remote, cold air spilling into the gap between him and Y/N like water pouring into a rockpool at high tide. He returned, though, just not as close as before. He seemed to want to be able to turn his head enough to meet Y/N's eyes.

"Of course. You're great with children." Y/N's voice felt naked without the mumblings of the television to buzz around with her words. A sheep left without a flock. Vulnerable. "It's other _adults_ you have issues with." She tried, wanting to burn off some of the seriousness hanging in the air, and it worked because Sherlock smiled.

"But I have so few issues with _you_ that one day you might marry me?"

Y/N turned herself to face him, crossing her legs. She'd found the little index card that came with the chocolates and was examining the pictures. "I don't have _any_ issues with you. Apart from that one time you stored a finger in the fridge and it leaked onto my sandwiches. But that wasn't really your fault, those ziplock bags were rubbish." The mattress started shaking. "Why are you laughing?"

Sherlock looked up at her through his fringe, his gaze focused somewhere just above the bridge of Y/N's nose. His irises have flecks of amber in them; like sand stirred up by waves. He was leaning closer to her and suddenly her muscles felt like cake. "You still have the sticker on your forehead."

Y/N's cheeks prickled rose-coloured as he delicately took the frayed edge of the little sheet of plastic between finger and thumb and teased it from her skin. It had been there so long she felt its reluctance to let go, wincing, although it didn't hurt much; his proximity had awakened her nerves. Sherlock noticed anyway, because of course he did, and soothed the tender red circle at Y/N's temple with the pad of his thumb. She felt his skin drag across hers, a smudge of glue from the sticker-back bunching between them, and he took it with him when he retracted his hand.

He gave her a shy smile. "So...what age do people usually set these things for? Marriage pacts, I mean."

Y/N inclined her shoulders. Sherlock looked much more nervous than Y/N felt. He keeps chewing his bottom lip, the smooth wedges of his teeth leaving it cherry red, and Y/N slightly breathless. They're agreeing to marry each other---provided they don't manage to find someone else to marry first. Y/N, if she wasn't so disratced at present by her friend's mouth, would be confused as to why she doesn't feel more...anything. She should also be picking a loose string at the hem of her pyjamas, she should also be too nervous to meet the large wells of his pupils, just like Sherlock has been for the past several minutes. But she's not.

Maybe because she doesn't believe it will really happen. Someone like Sherlock not manage to find a partner? He'll either get snatched up by a loving woman who matches him in intellect and attractiveness, plus has a shimmering career to boot---or he'll just have strings of meaningless flings with whichever women he fancies most at the time. Yes, a life of celibacy will bore him eventually and romance will greet him with open arms wherever he goes. There's no weight to agreeing to be his safety wife because it's just that; for safety. When has he ever had to resort to a Plan B? "How about we both say a number and we meet somewhere in the middle?"

"Okay," Sherlock gave a nod of his head. He sounded like he'd prefer Y/N to just hand him a number, as if he's scared of toeing a line, but he'd agreed to it now.

"Okay, on the count of three."

Another nod of his head.

"One, two, three---"

"Thirty-five---?"

"Forty-five---" She blinked. "Wait did you say thirty-five?"

Sherlock retreated under his curly fringe and Y/N's mouth curled into a smile.

"The idea is to give each other a _chance_ to meet someone."

He stuttered out: "Yes of course." Going red as Y/N added salt to his wound with:

"Thirty-five is only---"

"Yes, I know, I get it now. It was a slip of the tongue. I meant forty-five. That's a good idea." He made a show of turning to the bedside table to his left and said, even though Y/N couldn't remember that side of the bed ever having a clock on it. "Oh look at the time." He flicked off the bedside light and wriggled under the covers, turning promptly onto his side, facing away from Y/N who was watching with what could only be described as amusement. "Good night."

"...Night," Y/N pushed from her smile. She was mentally stamping down her desire to laugh at him as he laid there, stock still, obviously too embarrassed to even unknot his muscles enough to breathe.

Placing the almost-empty chocolate box with its lid firmly in place (to keep out any Basils) on her own bedside table, Y/N clicked out her own light and shimmied the lip of the duvet out from under herself so she could get underneath it too.

The bed dipped invitingly the closer to Sherlock's side she got, as if the mattress was taking her hand and guiding her to where she should be. So she let it, moving up to Sherlock's back until she was curled around him, like he had been with her the previous night. She paused, rigid with self-discipline before closing that final, pesky space between them; giving him a chance to pull away, to push _her_ away, to protest or politely decline her embrace.

But he didn't.

So she nuzzled her nose into his hair. It smelled like the sofa. And how the bathroom smells when he'd just had a shower; sweet, with the faintest edge of a citrusy tang. Men's shampoo doesn't seem to have a particular scent. Women's come with labels like 'honey blossom' or 'coconut' or 'argan oil'. Men's is just...an assortment of randomly selected smells, it seems. Nice smells, like a bag that had been filled with pic-a-mix sweets, and Y/N can't help huffing out her breath just so she can bring in another one. It ruffled Sherlock's curls, humidity swirling over his scalp, the strands caressing her nose.

The muscles in his back loosened.

Hesitantly, Y/N slipped her arm around his middle, holding him close and felt him sigh, the sheets rustling like sun-warmed autumn leaves as he seemed to be searching for something under the covers. He found it; Y/N's hand, and closed his own over the back of it, hugging it to his chest. She held him tighter. 

She wanted him to turn over, then. She wanted him to kiss her. She didn't care where. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.

  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

He didn't kiss her.

Basil stayed at 221B for five more days and for every single one it continued to rain, not that anyone minded (besides Mrs Hudson, who was concerned about wet-dog smell embedding itself in her carpets).

By the fourth day, Sherlock, Basil, and Y/N had settled into a comfortable routine that involved a walk each morning, amusing themselves inside for the remainder of the day, then, in the evening, another walk before tucking up in Y/N's bed to watch a movie.

At first, Y/N had been on the edge of her seat, metaphorically speaking. She half expected Sherlock to suddenly complain that their routine was  _ too _ comfortable, that he'd gone too long without a case and would, therefore, deal with his boredom by pulling some kind of extravagant stunt to amuse himself. Like overthrowing the British parliament just to see what would happen. Or stealing the minute-hand from Big Ben just to prove that he could.

However, the days since he last solved a larger crime than Who Ate The Last HobNob (it was Basil) ticked by with nary a complaint. If anything, Y/N had rarely seen her flatmate so chipper. He held up his end of the agreement that had been made at the beginning of the week, aiding Y/N in Basil's general care and maintenance with the same level of eagerness as he'd started with. He was enthusiastic about every walk, despite the constant rain, and the fact that cleaning Basil's paws afterwards was less than an easy task. He volunteered to pop to the shops for another sack of dog food when the first ran out, supplying it with his own money. His face still lit up with joy every time Basil seeked out his affections, even if his timing was slightly inconvenient. Like when Sherlock was in the bath. Or submerged in a dream at 3am.

Something Y/N also anticipated was for Sherlock to guiltily confess to her that his earlier promise of a marriage pact had been a result of a dare, a prank, alcohol, recreational drugs, and/or an experiment. He was bound to realise what he'd done---what he'd agreed to---and retract every word of it at some point, Y/N was absolutely sure of it. Or embarrassment at showing his more vulnerable side would hit him all of a sudden, like a delayed reaction, and he'd deal with it by moving out all together (that last concern is a tad dramatic, but he is Sherlock Holmes, so Y/N wouldn't only not put it past him, she almost expected it).

But he didn't.

If anything, that uncharacteristically uninhibited conversation seemed to have pitched Y/N and Sherlock's friendship into a new tier of intimacy. By day three, Sherlock had stopped asking if he'd be spending the night in Y/N's room and just assumed he  _ would  _ be, gravitating to her bed whenever sleep was suggested as if it was second nature. It was clear that he'd adopted the right side of the bed as one of his Spots; little designated areas on the face of Planet Earth that he feels most at home. 

(Y/N is another one of his Spots, not that she knew it. He'd go anywhere if she promised to stand by his side the entire time).

Despite his aplomb when entering Y/N's room, climbing onto Y/N's bed, and submerging himself in Y/N's duvet covers, it took Sherlock a while to initiate any kind of contact with Y/N herself; even though God  _ knows _ he wanted to. A lot. But he didn't want to wait until the film was halfway-over to shyly scoot up to Y/N's side, so close that she could feel his now slightly-less-pointy hip bone pressed against hers. He wasn't patient enough to make it look like an accident like the first time they'd cuddled at the begging of the week. His needy, yearning gazes over to Y/N's side of the mattress were so obvious that even Basil picked up on them. In the end, Y/N just laughed at him, (which made his cheekbones colour) and lifted her arm so he knew he could sink against her side. Sometimes Y/N would rest her chin on his head, his curls fluttering as her breath ran through them, like the wind through grass. 

Last night, though, Sherlock did something different.  _ He _ lifted  _ his _ arm, wordlessly inviting Y/N to nestle herself against  _ his _ side. He wanted her affections, that was obvious.  _ This _ had been a test to see if Y/N wanted  _ his _ .

Of course she did, so, heart in her mouth, she'd moved over, letting her head fall on Sherlock's chest, bringing one arm to rest over his middle. He'd held her closer.

Prickles of interest still crackled their way across her skin at the memory.

He held her at night, too, when the lights were switched out, now that he had permission. Before Y/N had even found a comfortable position to sleep in he'd curl his long, lanky frame around her, or---on more than one occasion---take her hand and pull her over like a blanket until she was flush against his back. Sometimes Y/N staved off sleep for as long as she could, just so she could lay there, enjoying it, rubbing patterns onto his waist in time with his breathing. If he'd ever also been awake to feel it, he said nothing. Y/N felt a swell of something in her chest every time she realised that if he  _ didn't _ like it he surely would have put a stop to it by now.

_ Sherlock _ inviting  _ Y/N _ to cuddle had happened last night---their last night with Basil---and that may have been the reason why he's done it. It was of mutual, unspoken understanding that when Basil leaves all shall return to normal. That was why Sherlock had been spending the night in Y/N's room, after all; to get equal time with their temporary pet. Either one of them asking if they could (or inviting the other to) stay when Basil left would mean admitting that he had been an irrelevant factor. That they simply...enjoyed sharing a bed with eachother.

Y/N knew she wasn't brave enough to ask Sherlock to stay. She'd come close, several times, but the words always ended up losing momentum somewhere between her lungs and her mouth; as if her throat was a stretch of treacherous wilderness they couldn't quite make it through.

This was one of those times, as she watched Sherlock try to reach something he'd accidentally managed to get lodged on top of the cupboard. The thing was a bag of chocolate chips he'd bought specifically to put on top of that yogurt he likes---that one with a Nordic name on the label. He'd hidden the packet up on top of the cupboard because he hadn't wanted Y/N or Mrs Hudson "snaffling them" (a direct quote).

If you asked Y/N why that particular moment made her want to ask him to move into her bedroom, she wouldn't be able to answer. Not with any certainty. For some reason, at that moment---as his slight frown of frustration stirred guilty giggles in Y/N's chest like bubbles in a fizzy drink---she couldn't help falling a little deeper in love. 

"How'd you manage to get them so far back?" Y/N asked. Sherlock's shirt had come untucked at his stomach and she wanted to reach over and push it back into the band of his trousers. Not because it was bugging her, or he looked slightly scruffy (that actually, somehow, just made him more attractive), but because she just wanted an excuse to touch him.

He retracted his arm and gave his hand a little shake as if angry at it for being several inches shorter than he'd like it to be. The crumbs of dust clinging to his fingers evacuated, fluttering to the ground like snow. London never  _ had _ got that snow that seemed so close to falling at the beginning of the week. Just rain. Constant, ever-present droplets of moisture leaking from the sky with no sign of dissipating.

"I pushed them further back by accident," Sherlock said, looking thoughtful. "I need a grabber." He demonstrated, making little snapping motions with the hand still slightly dusty from the top of the cupboard.

"Like one of those sticks with a shark's mouth on the end?" Y/N suggested, mainly joking. She doubted Sherlock had owned one of those as a child, let alone now.

He nodded, though. "Yes. Or like your hand."

"My hand---?"

"I'll lift you up and you grab them."

Y/N blinked. She hadn't heard anything after 'I'll lift you'. 

Not wanting to sound too eager, she pulled on a rather convincing pout. "You hid them up there because you didn't want me stealing any, now you want my help getting them down."

Sherlock rolled his pretty eyes. "Yes, yes, irony. If you help I'll give you some."

"How many?"

If Y/N didn't know any better she'd say he was doing mental calculations; estimating the number of chips in the packet then deciding how many he could spare and still have a satisfying yoghurt experience. He  _ would _ be, if he didn't struggle at maths; something Y/N had found out when she asked him to help her with the monthly bills. Maybe because there's nothing to visualise; his picture-orientated brain doesn't know what to do with it.

"...Seven."

Feigning outrage: "That's not even a handful!"

"Fine, twelve."

"Where are you  _ getting _ these numbers?"

Something nosed as Y/N's hand and she looked down to see that Basil had risen from his place by the fire to investigate the hubbub. He huffed a little breath of air through his moist nose against her palm; his way of asking ' _ All good?'.  _ Or so Y/N liked to think.

"Fifteen; that's my last offer." He's smiling now. He'd wiped his dusty hand on his right trouser leg, the white streaks contrasting with the black of the cotton-like a ghost cat had clawed at his pocket.

Y/N conceded. "Okay. Just be careful, I'll hit my head on the ceiling." She came over to where Sherlock was standing and felt his arms snake around her waist, tighten, then suddenly her feet were no longer in contact with the ground. "You know," she pointed out, mainly to distract herself from---well, from all of it. The satisfying solidness of his arms. What it felt like to have him support her weight. His body behind hers--- "You could have just stood on a chair." She felt around the top of the cupboard, grimacing as the fluffy results of skipping this particular area during the weekly vacuum clung to the pads of her fingers.

Before Sherlock could answer, Basil suddenly let out a string of incessantly loud barks, the piercing tone shattering the air to pieces. 

Both Y/N and Sherlock turned to look at him, scared he was being attacked or something (well, Sherlock turned; Y/N couldn't help turning too, seeing as he was still holding her over a foot off the ground).

As far as anyone could tell, he wasn't being attacked. Unless his assailant was invisible and/or under one centimetre tall. Basil was just standing there, facing the only two humans in the room with his legs spread squarely as if he was in defensive-mode, head pointed to the air and mouth opening as each bark ripped from his lungs.

"What's wrong with him?" Y/N asked over the noise. She almost wished her hand wasn't so grubby; she wanted to cram her fingers in her ears.

Promptly and without answering, Sherlock put her back down and she rushed over to see if Basil would let her soothingly pet his head. He did, shutting his jaw and turning his fuzzy lips up into a smile as Y/N cradled his face, her fingers scratching little circular motions into the base of his ears. His tail wagged from side to side, thumping into the table leg with the muffled sound of his bones bumping into the wood.

When he'd been settled, Y/N asked: 

"What was that all about?" She pushed herself back out of her crouching position and returned to where Sherlock still stood by the counter because she hadn't yet managed to retrieve the awol chocolate chips. Distractedly, Sherlock's arms came about her middle once more so he could lift her up for a second try.

Again, Basil immediately started barking.

Y/N's fingertips touched on something that felt like plastic foil and she grabbed at it just as Sherlock put her down, saying as he did so with an amused smile:

"I think he doesn't like it when I pick you up."

Y/N pressed the chocolate chips---dusty and coated in spider webs, but otherwise unharmed---into Sherlock's hand.

He wasn't paying attention to them anymore, just watching Basil with almost scientific interest.

"You think?" Y/N turned to their temporary pet, who, now that he could see she was free and obviously unscathed, was back to his usual contented self.

She felt rather than saw Sherlock shrug. "Let's find out." He came up behind her and a startled yelp escaped Y/N's lips as he scooped her up bridal style, which, as predicted, set Basil off as if a switch had been flicked. Y/N couldn't help her face splitting into a smile. "He's trying to protect me," she laughed, feeling Sherlock's answering chuckles from where she was pressed against his torso. If only Basil would hush for just a second so she could hear them. Although, maybe it's a good thing that she can't; she was already melting like ice cream, about to slide through Sherlock's arms and onto the floor in a puddle. Y/N hooked her arm around his neck to prevent that from happening. It felt like a very real possibility. 

When his barks of warning didn't seem to be enough to make Sherlock put Y/N down, he changed tactics and came over to his trouser legs, which he nudged his face into, nipping at the fabric with his front teeth in between low, rumbling growls. It would have been unsettling, had Sherlock not been laughing right by Y/N's ear. It feathered against the side of her face like feathers being run over her skin. Suddenly she was covered in goosebumps.

"He might rip your trousers," she pointed out, having to raise her voice over Basil's baying. It probably wouldn't really matter if he did; Y/N knew that Sherlock had six other identical pairs in his wardrobe just in case something like this should happen (although granted, he probably hadn't anticipated this exact scenario).

Sherlock took a step backwards, a half-hearted attempt to save his clothes, but mainly to see if Basil would pursue him.

He did, catching the fabric properly now and giving it a warning tug, his barks having to edge around the smooth points of his teeth.

"What  _ is _ going on up here?" 

Y/N and Sherlock looked up in unison to see Mrs Hudson standing in the entrance to their kitchenette, her kindly face creased with bemusement, her bony little hands pushed firmly against the equally bony hips below her floral skirt. It was mid-winter but she appeared reluctant to admit it. Sometimes it seemed that Mrs Hudson's flamboyant attire was the only thing left to remind anyone that summer was, in fact, a thing that had happened and not some shared hallucination.

Sherlock placed Y/N back on the ground gently, causing Basil to release his leg and quieten back down. It would take several minutes for anyone to experience the silence; their ears were ringing so loudly Y/N almost checked to see if her mobile was receiving a call. 

"I was picking Y/N up and Basil seemed to think I was attacking her, Sherlock explained. He was holding out his hand, probably waiting to see if Basil would forgive him and press his wide furry forehead into his palm like he usually does. Said dog gave his fingers a thorough sniffing, running his rough snout over Sherlock's skin before reluctantly accepting his apology. He let Sherlock tentatively pet his neck.

Mrs Hudson is an astute woman, and Sherlock was speaking in English, but that didn't really seem to help. She furrowed her brow at him, as she so often did. He's probably the root cause of several of her wrinkles. "Why were you...?"

"He lost some chocolate chips," Y/N explained, which only confused their landlord more. She made the intelligent choice of electing to swiftly move the conversation along rather than enquiring further. She was here for a reason and had suddenly remembered what it was. Her expression softened and she took her hands from her hips, instead clasping them together in front of her like a doctor about to break some bad news to a patient. "Listen you two---"

Sherlock had sunk to his knees next to Basil now, giving him a doggy-massage to make up for teasing him so. He looked up at Mrs Hudson with contrite. "Sorry for the noise."

The older woman waved off his words like they were a present she really didn't want. "I don't mind, it's been lovely to see you enjoying yourselves. It's a shame Basil has to go, you really---"

"They're here already?" Sherlock cut her off, but she didn't seem to mind that either. Maybe she's used to Sherlock's little Sherlock-isms---anticipates them. Or maybe she really does love him like a son, so she lets a few things slide. Maybe both, because she's giving him a look as if it physically pains her to say:

"Yes." Turing to Y/N now: "Laura and Ted really are lovely, no wonder Basil is so well behaved. They were telling me all about their honeymoon, it sounded so romantic," she trailed off perhaps realizing this wasn't the time. Or that this wasn't her audience.

Sherlock stroked a hand down the length of Basil's back. Probably trying to memorise the feeling of his coarse fur passing under his palm.

Y/N suddenly felt like giving him a hug, but she didn't know how he'd feel about that so placed a hand on his shoulder instead, giving it a squeeze that she hoped was comforting.

Sherlock didn't shrug her away.

"Tell them we'll be down as soon as we've packed up his things."

...

Y/N thought it was ironic---as she stood next to Sherlock on the doorstep, watching Basil be driven out of their lives---that the rain chose this moment to finally stop. It should be pouring down, the sky grey and downcast---in the figurative and literal sense---to reflect the somberness of the occasion, she thinks. But it isn't. Not at the moment. The sky is the same colour as the puddle-strewn pavement, full to the brim like a saturated sponge. As if nature had given up attempting to drown London, just for a second. It had taken pity on the two sad-looking humans saying goodbye to their butterscotch-coloured friend of four legs.

They'd watched Basil's face through the rear window as Laura and Ted drove him away. He had been ecstatic to see his owners, obviously, but as they'd ushered him into the car he'd gazed back at 221B with a look that suggested he knew what was going on and it made him sad.

Sherlock didn't move, even when Basil was totally out of sight. Y/N didn't want to prompt him to go back into the flat, even though the brittle winter chill was sucking her skin into gooseflesh. He needed time. And, if Y/N did nudge him with her elbow, what would she suggest they do anyway? There's nothing they  _ should _ be doing. No dog that needs walking, no dog food that needs fetching, no pet that needs amusing. So they'll do this. For a bit, anyway.

When Sherlock did eventually move, it was to tip his head back to look at the sky. It was the exact same colour as his eyes; as if them and it were two mirrors facing each other, the reflections nothing but steely grey.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" He asked suddenly, looking down at Y/N beside him.

She was  _ right _ beside him; the doorway slightly too snug for two bodies to stand comfortably within it without being packed like sardines. Y/N didn't mind and she didn't think Sherlock did either. The contact was soothing.

"It won't be the same without Basil, but I've grown accustomed to it."

Y/N tugged her jumper tighter around herself and smiled up at him. Raising her heart rate would help her warm up, after all. "Sure. Shall we go to the park like we usually do?"

...

Sherlock approved of this idea, his long face brightening now that he had something to do rather than mope around the flat thinking about how much emptier it would be from now on. He'd had the good sense to grab his coat on the way out of the apartment to say goodbye to Basil, but Y/N had not. Sherlock asked her if she'd like to run upstairs and fetch it before they leave, but she waved him off.

"It's not raining anymore," had been her reason, to which Sherlock inclined his broad shoulders in a _'it's_ _your_ _funeral'_ kind of way as they stepped out into the street. The pavement was dotted with tightly-packaged people, all making the most of the dry spell like bees using a break in a storm to stock up on pollen.

The park was equally full of them, if not more so---people, not bees (their time of year was long since over)---all wrapped firmly in warm clothes. Y/N gazed at a woman, who had a faux fur hat wedged on top of her curly blonde head, with slight envy; she was regretting not bringing a coat more and more with every second (and chilly gust of wind) that passed. She wanted to take Sherlock's arm, get into his invitingly spacious coat with him---or something. For once because she was genuinely in need of warmth, not to satisfy that aching desire to be close to him that she didn't seem to be able to shake.

"You're cold," Sherlock said after several minutes of silence, more a statement than a question---can he read minds? He was facing forwards but looking at Y/N through the sides of his eyes. They were creased with a knowing smirk.

Y/N folded her arms over her chest like a petulant child, not to show her discontent at being made fun of, but to conserve heat, clutching it to her chest as like an object she didn't want anyone to steal. "I'm fine." An obvious lie. Her breath was condensing in the air before her, stinging her face as she stepped into it and making her nose a shiny shade of red.

It both managed to somehow concern and amuse Sherlock, who was fighting off the instinctual urge to swaddle her up in something. His arms or his Belstaff, he hadn't decided yet. "Give me your hand," again, a statement, not a suggestion.

It didn't matter; it's not like Y/N is going to refuse, anyway.

Smiling, she unwrapped one arm from the knot of them she'd made at her torso, self-consciously checking for clamminess, even though she knew the chances of her having worked up any kind of sweat in this weather was close to nil. If she had, surely it would have frozen by now.

Sherlock had pulled his glove off with his teeth and held out his bare palm between their bodies for Y/N to take. The pads of his fingers were pink, their warmth bringing sensation back to Y/N's skin as they closed around her hand like a defibrillator. "We can turn back, if you want," Sherlock proposed kindly, his tone suggesting to Y/N that he genuinely cared for her wellbeing. Of course he does. She should stop being surprised by it.

"No, it's okay, I'm feeling better now." She wasn't even lying; Sherlock's palm was heating her blood like a pot of water on a stove. "Thanks."

He lifted their clasped hands and slotted them both neatly into his coat pocket. The coarse wool fibres brushed the back of Y/N's hand, she knew when she later removed it it would be covered with little bunches of lint. She gave Sherlock's hand a grateful squeeze, which made him smile.

As the ground beneath their feet changed from crunchy gravel paths to crisp grass, Y/N's brain churned away to itself, trying to generate some kind of conversation starter. Using one of their classics seemed inappropriate, given that they were both in some mild state of mourning. Yet, she knew that discussing what they had lost would only make them blue.

The wind had picked up somewhere between the main entrance to the park and the group of trees Y/N and Sherlock were now amongst, the air shaking the branches and tearing at the few withered leaves as if it wanted to rip them off. Like one of those rotating billboards, the block of light grey clouds had moved on and been replaced by several tightly-packed darker ones. They were rounded and billowing, water balloons that had been filled beyond their capacity.

Y/N's brain had strung together something to say by this time, and was so proud of itself it gave her no warning before asking quite suddenly: "What were the posters of?"

Sherlock's brows furrowed because he was obviously confused. "What?"

"The other day you said you had a blue bedroom wall, and you put posters up," Y/N explained. "What were they of? Madonna? Janet Jackson? Who else was popular while we were growing up?" She gave him a playful nudge with her elbow and his rosy-cheeks deepened several shades.

"They were actually mainly of maps, butterflies, and a bunch of chemical symbols."

"Why am I not surprised?" Y/N laughed. It pooled before her in swirls of fog, her fond giggle taking on a physical form.

Obviously appreciating the light tone of the conversation, Sherlock said: "There were some photos too. Mostly of my family and I. Although, Mycroft wasn't in many of them. He didn't like having pictures taken. I did, I'd always be pulling stupid faces." He chuckled at the memory and Y/N made a mental note to ask his mother, when she next visits, to bring some. "A lot of the photos were of my dog."

Y/N's expression fell. Tonight there would be no hot Basil-shaped lump at the end of the mattress to heat her toes. "We should have taken more pictures of Basil."

There was a silence, mutual sadness fermenting in the space between them. They had taken a few photos with the retriever but not enough, they were realising with hindsight. Y/N's favourite was the three of them lined up in size order in front of the fire, all looking back over their shoulder at the camera. Mrs Hudson had taken it, having made an 'awwww' sound when she entered the room. It was one of the few pictures Y/N had of Sherlock in her phone. You could probably count them on one hand. For some reason she had assumed he had some kind of aversion to them---thought photography stupid or trivial or something else---but he didn't. Not when Mrs Hudson has asked to take one anyway. He just smiled at the lens, held still long enough for the shutters to close, then continued what he'd been doing. The only reason Y/N hadn't responded to this realisation by snapping as many images of him that he and her phone's storage would allow was the fact that Sherlock would probably deem her some kind of stalker.

After a little while, as they followed the perimeter of the lake, Sherlock said: "It's a shame basil is gone. It was fun having him around." His chest rose and fell in Y/N's peripheral vision. He'd sucked in a breath and now forced it out in the form of words that he'd been trying to make himself say for fifteen minutes: "---And because I liked sleeping in the same bed as someone else."

Y/N looked up at him, her mouth falling open in surprise. A gust of January wind made her teeth feel like she was biting into a slushy.

Sherlock must have thought she was raising her eyebrows at his phrasing because he added: "You. I meant I like sharing a bed with  _ you _ ." He kept peeking through his fringe to meet Y/N's eyes, then absconding back to staring at his shiny Oxfords. He let go of her hand for a second, wiping his palm on his coat then taking it again, his pocket suddenly having risen in temperature by several degrees.

"...You can keep sleeping in my room, if you want." Y/N was treading very carefully, but, at the same time, trying to make her tone as casual as possible. It was a difficult task. "Even though we don't have a dog we both want to pet." Y/N has Sherlock's face mapped in her brain, what sort of comment or remark will cause which features to pull into a smile or drag his lips down into a frown. She'd expected her invitation to be one of the things to make him grin, but it didn't. Apparently he still had something he wanted to say.

There was another rise of his chest, another quick snatching of air. He repurposed it in his lungs and handed it to Y/N before he could change his mind: "If we ever do...get married---to each other, when we're older---we'll have our own Basil."

Y/N had wondered if Sherlock had been serious that night, when he'd agreed to making a marriage pact then fell asleep in her arms. She even started to consider the fact that he'd forgotten. Or it had been a dream. Apparently it hadn't. "So you really do like the idea of having a family?" she asked, her voice possessing a clear edge of curiosity.

"Yes." A pause. Sherlock licked his lips to moisten them. "Actually I have an interest in...all of it. The parts before having a family too."

Y/N just huffed a laugh at this. "What? Like being a boyfriend and dating and stuff? I thought you didn't want to meet someone. I thought you called it---what was the word? 'Moronic', once. More than once." She'd bent the fingers of her free hand into little air quotes.

Sherlock obviously hadn't expected that kind of reaction because his mouth pressed into a frown as he said back defensively: "Well I've changed my mind. It actually seems...rather nice." Speaking almost one hundred per cent to his shoes now, eye contact a thing of the past: "I've never had anything close to romance...to someone sharing their life with me. I thought I could struggle along without it. But now that I've kind of had a taste of what it's like...I don't think I want to."

He's referring to sharing a bed. Pulling Y/N over to his side and holding her, having her nuzzle her nose into the hollow at the base of his neck. His first taste of romance, even though it hadn't been intended as such.

"You don't  _ think _ you want to?" Y/N doesn't know why she's messing with him, weaselling confessions out of him. She doesn't even know what to do with them now that she has them. The ones he had handed over already were too bare, too vulnerable, too uncharacteristically innocent. Y/N didn't want to hold them because she was scared she'd break them.

Sherlock scratched the back of his neck, turning his coat-collar up where it had fallen limply down into its default position. He wasn't trying to keep the wind  _ away _ , he was trying to  _ funnel _ it  _ in _ , against his skin to cool the flush that extended into his shirt and down to his collarbones. "I  _ don't _ want to struggle along without it. I liked it. All of it."

Y/N caught their reflection in the still water of the lake to their left. She liked what she saw. She wasn't even admiring herself, how she looked with a handsome man on her arm. She was looking at Sherlock's face; just the side of it, the clean line of his cheekbone pink. She'd never get used to seeing him blush, and she'd never get used to the fact that she always seemed to be the root cause of it. "I liked it too," she stated

There were several beats of silence. A raindrop fell onto the surface of the pond and sent a ripple through it like a silk curtain that someone had given a little shake. 

Softly, soft and small and yet so significant---like the raindrop that had the power to upset an entire lake: "Why don't we be in one together? A relationship."

Y/N laughed again, not believing him. Or she was so shocked her brain didn't process the words. Or a mixture of the two. "We've already agreed to get married if we're both single at forty-five. I was serious about that."

"Me too. But I mean...why don't we try being together before that. Not because we agreed to and are scared of being alone---or whatever---but because we...want to."

...

Y/N opened her mouth and several little words wobbled their way off of her tongue: "You want to?"

Sherlock was staring at her. "Yes. Very much."

A drop of rain landed in Y/N's eye. She blinked.

Suddenly, it was pouring down. Literally pouring, so much so that Y/N was almost tempted to tilt her head up, to check that they hadn't somehow stopped under a fountain. Does Regent's Park even have fountains? Y/N wondered.

The man she has secretly been in love with for an embarrassing amount of time had just confessed that he might have feelings for her, and she's thinking about local water features.

Because of that word.

_ Might. _

He wants to be in a relationship with her, but that doesn't necessarily mean he wants to be in a relationship with  _ her _ . He might just want to be in a  _ relationship _ . He might just want everything that comes with a relationship, the cuddling, the kissing, sex, sharing your life with someone---

_ Might. _

Y/N's clothes are sticking to her, already drenched.  _ She should have grabbed her coat.  _ The rain is throwing itself from the heavens, cold and unforgiving, as if each drop thinks it's a meteorite whose sole purpose in life is to hit Earth with such force it causes the next mass extinction event. It wakes Y/N from her stupor like a bucket of water rather than droplets and she realises Sherlock has moved. He's no longer watching her, waiting for her to say something,  _ anything _ \---why hasn't she said anything _? _ \---he's taking off his coat, squinting to see through the sheet of raindrops that hung all around them like a violent beaded curtain. Before Y/N even had time to be surprised, he was hurriedly draping the material around her shoulders.

He had to get close to her to do so, leaning over her a little as he reached around quickly, bringing the collar to meet under her chin. Dark spots had started to flower all over his now unprotected purple shirt, wet, rich violets blossoming and merging and multiplying. Despite his metaphorically exposed heart, despite the rain, despite everything, the corner of Sherlock's lip was twitching into a smile. He liked how Y/N looked wearing his clothes.

It was difficult to run for shelter in Sherlock's coat. Mainly because it was too big for Y/N. It weighed a ton just as it was, but the wool was now so thick with moisture it flapped heavily around her ankles, her arms grabbing bunches of it to prevent the hem from scraping on the floor. It was warm, though, still warm from Sherlock's body, and it kept the rain off Y/N's goose-flesh-freckled skin. Sherlock's hand was at her back, warming her too, guiding them to the bandstand Y/N could just about make out in the distance. She knew it was there from memory more than the fact that she could see it. Usually, it's full of people, so naturally, her crowd-averse companion avoids it like two magnets repelling each other, but now it's pleasingly empty. The park is empty, patrons having fled for home under umbrellas or portable shelters they'd devised from their jackets.

In a way, the rain was almost beautiful. It made a nice sound as it pierced the puddles growing rapidly in little hollows in the lawn that had been pressed into the grass by thousands of feet. It made Sherlock and Y/N's own footsteps loud, the soles of their shoes slapping the ground, Y/N's rapid, Sherlock's strides longer and further between.

Their footfalls changed from wet spatters to the solid echo of trending on concrete as they finally entered the band stand, panting between huffed-out giggles. There's just something about being caught in a storm, something about the comradery of trying to outrun it that makes your blood suddenly flush with adrenaline.

They'd run for Y/N's sake. There's no way Sherlock could get any soggier, it's too late for him; it looked more like he'd swam there; leapt into the lake and front crawled across the park. Y/N tugged his coat tighter around herself, grateful for its protection and his sacrifice. His shirt was soaked through, clinging to him like a second skin.

Y/N tried not to look---the material temptingly transparent---so focused on something else: the trees bowing to the wind, visible over one of Sherlock's broad shoulders, Sherlock's  _ broad shoulders _ , the sweep of them, shoulder, shoulder, shoulder, neck, so much neck, then his  _ hair _ . Weighed down with water, the curls had turned a rich hazelnut colour---like dark chocolate that had melted in its packet---and had unravelled and were now hanging in little limp waves.

She wanted to touch it.

That was no improvement, so Y/N wrangled in any thoughts she was having about pushing his wonderfully fit body up against the railing, and instead put her mind to forming some words. She really did need to find some words. It was difficult. There were many things she wanted to say, like 'thank you' and 'aren't you cold?' and 'did you mean it?' but the syllables kept getting clogged up in her throat that was raw from the cold. She was still breathing a little heavily---but she had to say  _ something _ \---so she just jammed three letters together: "Why?"

"Because you were already cold. It started to rain and I feared you'd get hyperthermia," Sherlock answered. That hadn't been the one Y/N wanted, and she thinks he knew that. His chest was rising and falling, but Y/N knows he's ran further than that before without breaking a sweat.

She was blushing now, a tingling sensation radiating from her stomach. She's wearing Sherlock's coat. The coat she'd daydreamed God knows how many times about climbing inside. She's wearing Sherlock's coat and he looks sinfully attractive for someone who'd just been heavily rained on.

"Thank you. I didn't mean that, though. I meant---"

Sherlock met her eyes and it felt like sitting too close to a fire when it suddenly blazes up. "Because I like you. A lot. More than a lot. I like your personality and your face and your body and how it feels when you touch me." His brows had furrowed as if all of this puzzled him, but his smile was still there. He laughed at himself, he's found a momentum and he's not going to let go of it now that he's finally grabbed one. He'd been searching for one for so long. "I liked doing coupley things with you, sharing a bed and having you rub patterns onto me as I fell asleep. I liked being close to you, comfortable enough with you to mess around and be unconscious in your arms. All of it."

The flush Y/N's cheeks had acquired was a strange contrast to the frigid wind. January kept trying to numb her skin, but Sherlock kept inadvertently reviving it, sending hot little prickles of electricity between her nerve cells. He didn't even have to touch her; just graze her with his eyes, grate against her with his voice. She's so electrified it's a wonder her hair isn't standing up on end. Maybe it would, if it wasn't currently plastered to her head.

"I'd understand if you don't feel the same way, I just thought it's worth asking, it's worth trying, just in case---somehow---you...liked me too," Sherlock's smile fell from his lips like the last leaf of summer giving in to the pull of autumn. It sounded somehow more impossible out loud;  _ 'Somehow you liked me too'.  _ Out of everyone in the world, why would she like him too?

Suddenly, scared to lose her, he reaches out with one hand as if to take some part of her; clutch her arm or submerge his fingers in her hair---but caught himself, thinking better of it, and ran it through his own instead. The movement slicked the dark waves back as if they had been gelled.

Y/N realised that's what he'd look like getting out of the shower. Given what he was saying, she wondered if he was thinking the same thing about her.

"The lady in my dream," He added, desperately throwing out sentences like a man hurling water from a sinking canoe with a bucket. "I know who she is now." He's afraid to stop talking, he doesn't want to stop talking because then Y/N will have a chance to talk, and who knows what she'll say.

It made Y/N want to take his hand. "The faceless lady you have sex with?"

Sherlock's lips pressed together, his shoulders setting below his sodden shirt.

If Y/N let her eyes lower she would be able to follow the lines of his muscles as they did so.

"I wish you hadn't phrased it like that." His cheeks are pink. "Because it's you."

A breath of wind rattled its way through the park once more, so cold that Y/N's breath seemed to freeze inside of her.

"It's been you for a while."

Her brain felt like a computer when you hit the mouse too many times; Sherlock's confessions stacked up, the cogs of Y/N's mind churning, trying to keep up, to process them with the same speed.

A second passed of Sherlock just watching her, chewing his lower lip. Then another second. He was being incredibly brave, some small, distant voice in Y/N's head pointed out. If Y/N were in his position she probably would have made a break for it whilst she was  _ admitting _ her undying love, let alone stand around long enough to witness the person she was admitting it to's reaction. He must really want her to like him back. Or he's so cold his blood has crystallised, freezing him to the spot.

"Sometimes we're not even..." Ah, so he's not frozen. His cheekbones are suffused with red, now. He's still alive enough to deepen a blush by several shades. "...Quite often you're just there. With me. I like you being with me." Gaze retreating sheepishly, Sherlock's now-not-so-shiny Oxfords toed at the floor. A crumb of gravel was caught between the sole of his shoe and the slick concrete, making little scratchy noises as he dragged it about.

Y/N's face split into a grin.

It was bright and beaming, so beaming it may have caused a rainbow, had they not been sheltered by the gazebo-like roof overhead. Y/N wanted to leap on him, this rain-drenched man before her shyly divulging his affections. She wanted to tackle him in a bone-crippling hug and capture his mouth for a passionate kiss.

She would have done, had he been anyone else.

But something stopped her.

He's new to all this.

_ 'You've never...?' _

_ 'No.' _

Gently, Y/N removed Sherlock's coat, feeling lighter, as if she'd float away, but it had nothing to do with shedding the saturated wool's weight. She gave it back to its rightful owner, tenderly wrapping it around the broad stretch of Sherlock's shoulders that she hadn't been able to stop staring at and likely never would. He blinked down at her, a droplet of water leaking from his temple and running down the side of his face. He watched as Y/N got into the coat with him, stepping up against his body, cocooning them both inside.

Blushing like mad, he seemed to know what this meant---what this gesture represented---because he'd started tentatively smiling too. His arms slid about Y/N's waist, tugging her closer. He didn't even mean to, it just came naturally, he'd wanted to do it for so long---

Y/N moistened her lips with her tongue, even though they were slick with rain. Her mouth felt dry. "Can I kiss you?"

Sherlock's strange lovely eyes went as wide as saucers. "Because you're flattered but don't feel the same way, and want to make me feel better? Or because---"

"Because I like you," Y/N giggled into Sherlock's chest, having dipped her head forwards enough to lean her forehead against his sternum. One of his shirt buttons pressed a little circle into her temple. "I really, really like you."

Something touched Y/N's face, tenderly tilted her head up. It was Sherlock's hand, her jawline slotting neatly into the broad cup of his palm. For one heart-stopping moment, Y/N thought he was crying---but he was probably just still damp from the rain. He was giving her this look, he always gave her that look, how had she not seen it sooner? He's been in love with her this whole damn time, how did it take her so long to notice?

"You want to kiss me?"

"Yes."  _ Yes yes yes yes  _ Is that even a strong enough word?

Shy as a schoolboy, hiding beneath the limp swirls of his fringe: "I'd like you to kiss me too. If you really want---"

The rest of that sentence was going to be laced with insecurity. Insecurity in himself, in his capacity as a romantic partner---Y/N didn't want to hear it---it's all bullshit. Him thinking he's too  _ strange  _ to have a family is bullshit. Him thinking he's too  _ weird  _ for someone to fall in love with him is bullshit.

So she kissed him, quickly, the rest of the word 'want' pushed back into his mouth. Because his self-depiction makes her cry, because she wanted to shut him up, because she wanted to prove him wrong, because she  _ likes _ him---

If Sherlock wasn't frozen before, he is now, just standing there stock still like marble. Y/N had pushed herself up to capture his lips, one hand cradling the back of his head guiding their mouths together. His hair was damp against her palm, sleek and silken like a magpie's breast.

His eyes slid closed.

When Y/N broke the kiss, Sherlock still had the side of her face in one hand. His skin had been cold before, like melting snow, but it had warned from Y/N's touch as if by the sun. He held her a few centimetres from his face, clearly not wanting her to pull away completely, not wanting her to go. He may not have kissed back, known  _ how  _ to kiss back, but he'd liked  _ being _ kissed. Heart thrumming against Y/N's chest like an excited drum circle, he was already panting, soft and breathy and a little overwhelmed. Y/N didn't need to see the rest of his expression to know he was smiling.

Y/N was smiling too, she hadn't stopped smiling and wouldn't for a long time.

Softly, the word a little swirl of condensation against Sherlock's skin: "Nice?"

His eyelids fluttered open. He blinked and gave a feeble, quick little nod of his head. "Yes."

Y/N watched his adam's apple bob up and then down the long, tissue-paper-white column of his throat as he swallowed.

He could taste her against his mouth and he liked it. "Can we do it again?"

Of course, Y/N nodded.

Sherlock pushed  _ his _ head forwards this time. Y/N didn't have to tug him down into a stooping position to reach her, he just fell, sought her out, catching her lips with eager intensity. He was bundling her up against the cool pillar of his body, collecting her, enveloping her further into his coat, but once he'd caught Y/N's mouth he quickly realised he didn't really know what to do with it.

Y/N could feel his hesitancy, so, unable to help the corners of her lips twitching into another smile, she took over.

He liked this much better, Y/N giving and him receiving, gingerly leaning into this new sensation. His lips were soft and uncertain, his grip tightening on the swell of her waist whenever she did something he particularly liked. Like when she caught the full curve of his bottom lip between her teeth. Or when she used her thumb at his chin to ease open his jaw a fraction, swallowing his answering bitten down sound of pleasure as he melted like butter between her fingers.

When she guessed he'd settled, gotten used to it, Y/N's tongue coaxed its way into Sherlock's mouth. He didn't protest. Rather the opposite, really. Her gentle licks and soft presses drew sounds from his chest so delicious Y/N wasn't even kissing him for the sensation of it, for a bit, she was just hunting for more of those moans, those  _ groans  _ that turned her blood to honey.

One of Sherlock's hands was at the back of Y/N's head. She didn't remember it getting there, he was just using it to sort of make sure she didn't pull away. Well, she could if she wanted to, it was more to  _ show _ Y/N that he didn't  _ want _ her to pull away. He just wanted more of this.  _ More more more more.  _ Sherlock had never really explored his sexuality, never had the  _ chance _ to, but now that he  _ is _ he's finding it delightfully addicting. Warm like a mug of coffee first thing in the morning. Sweet like the roof of your mouth after sucking gummy candy. And something else, something unparalleled that he couldn't quite describe. Sort of...achy. Like his whole body was hungry and nothing but Y/N was food. And parts of him were tingling, tingling like a current was being passed through his nerve cells, like thousands of minuscule wings were humming away in his veins.

Feeling wanted felt good. The slow, insistent push of Y/N's tongue felt good, the way she was trying to get closer, pressing all of herself up against his front felt good.

Y/N made a grateful hum of pleasure as Sherlock tilted his head, a silent, accidental plea to deepen the kiss. The sound shocked him because he tensed up, pushing away enough to ask:

"Did I do something wrong?"

This made Y/N laugh. It had stopped raining but she didn't notice. "No. No, not at all." She tugged him back, finding his mouth already open. Into it: "Do it again."

There goes Y/N's resolve not to go too fast. She hadn't meant to push him, to swamp him; he'd just had his first kiss, after all. But  _ he's _ nudging  _ her _ , using his weight to urge Y/N into a backwards walk until the small of her back bumped into the hard, cool edge of the band stand's railing. So needy. Sherlock had started to respond a long time ago, learning the rhythm of Y/N's movements and trying to match them (doing a breathtakingly good job at it too). Y/N's hand is holding the right side of his face, the sharp wedge of his jawline moving against her palm as he did his part for the kiss. There's the faintest hint of stubble there, gritty, scratching against Y/N's palm.

When they broke away for some more much-needed oxygen, Sherlock nipped at Y/N's bottom lip gently, drawing out a sigh from her opened mouth. He seemed to have had that one planned; as if it was something he'd wanted to do for a long time. He obviously approved of the result because he's beaming, his mouth all kiss-bruised, a dark pink.

"Sherlock," Y/N passed the syllables of his own name over to him in the form of little mist-filled gusts of breath. Despite the intimate heat between them, it was still January, and still rather cold. More than rather. "Days ago, in bed, when we were fighting over the chocolates...you wanted to kiss me then, didn't you?" Several things were starting to make sense, moments in time that had confused her at first slowly and neatly slotting into place.

He chuckled, the sound low and dark like the wood of a walnut tree. Can a laugh be a colour? "Y/N, I wanted to do more than kiss you."

Her cheeks filled with red blood cells. Sherlock found it very amusing. He tipped his head forwards, hoping Y/N's breath might caress the lower half of his face again.

Collecting herself, Y/N pulled the lapels of Sherlock's coat further around his shoulders. "If you would have done that---or asked me if I wanted to do that---I wouldn't have pushed you away. You know that, right?"

This time, Sherlock went strawberry-coloured. Someone  _ wanted  _ him, wanted his body, the things his body could provide---

He shivered.

Y/N must have mistaken it for the frigid winter cold setting into his damp attire because she said, running the pads of her fingers over his still-wet hair: "We should go home. Warm you up."

His smile turned into a smirk, curving upwards at one side. "It's strange," he mused, nudging the side of Y/N's nose with the smooth point of his. "I'm not actually cold anymore."

...

Sherlock slept in Y/N's bed again that night but for an entirely different reason this time.

There goes Y/N's resolve to go slow. Again. For the second time that day Y/N had found herself cursing at her piteously weak willpower.

But what was she supposed to do, when Sherlock was panting and turned on and excited beneath her, making the most  _ mouth-watering  _ noises at---well, at everything? Everything Y/N did got little pleased sounds, Sherlock's self-control clearly not being as iron-clad as he had everyone believe.

_ Clearly. _

_ 'More _ , please, Y/N'

'Don't  _ stop _ , Y/N'

'That feels so  _ good _ , Y/N'

So, yeah, what was she supposed to have done? Left his touch-starved skin untended to? Let him go another day without knowing what it feels like to have someone  _ take  _ him? Without knowing how it feels to have every centimetre of skin caressed, doted on, his body treated as if... well, as if someone is head over heels in love with him. As if someone  _ loves _ him.

Because someone does love him. Lots of people love him, he needs to realise that.

Y/N loves him the most, and she hoped he understood that as she drew a trail of cherry-coloured love-bites from one side of his collarbone to the other. A necklace made of roses.

Maybe it was for the best that Basil had to go home; he wouldn't have enjoyed having to spend the night alone downstairs by the fire; because that's where he would have ended up. As soon as Y/N entered her bedroom to find Sherlock giving her a bashful smile from the mattress, she would have distractedly ushered the malcontent retriever off the bed and out the door. Basil would have looked to Sherlock for backup, but found him preoccupied. He had eyes only for Y/N. 

"This okay?" Y/N asked as she immediately started pressing light kisses to his temple as soon as she had crawled next to him. She kept checking that the things she was doing were okay, that  _ Sherlock _ was okay. She didn't need to, not really.

Sherlock made a small contented noise, tipping his head to the side as Y/N extended her trail to include the narrow strip of muscle tapering from his ear to the neck of his shirt. "It's better than okay." He found her chin with one finger, cupping it and using it to bring Y/N's head up so it was level with his own.

Y/N's bones turned to rubber as Sherlock's eyes met hers; an overused and archaic metaphor, but accurate all the same. He was giving her that look again. How is she meant to show him everything she wants to show him if she can't even  _ look _ at him without quaking?

She sank down, her legs in no state to remain in a kneeling position for another second, and blinked in surprise to find Sherlock's lap below her. She hadn't meant to climb over him, to basically  _ straddle  _ the warm strength of his thighs. She'd meant to go slow.

He obviously didn't mind her being there, though, judging by the low little groan he made as her weight settled on his, pushing him into the mattress. Y/N felt the firm spread of his hand at her waist, dragging her closer to his stomach until her knees dug into the headboard. So sensitive. So needy.

And then they were kissing again. They'd done a lot of that, so much that their lips were raw and tender, not that they minded.

The pleased hum Sherlock's lungs pushed up at Y/N's fingers tangling into his hair skittered along her spine, making her grip tighten, making him hum again---and the cycle continued.

Pliant. That's the best---and strangely unexpected---way to describe Sherlock at present, Y/N thought vaguely to herself as he enjoyed the pleasant sensation of her mouthing at the lobe of his ear. Pliant and desperate, years of desires unsatisfied, ignored, bottled up and stuffed to some distant corner of his mind. Y/N was finding them---those neglected wants, those thirsts---and bringing them back into the light.

Like acorns that had been forgotten about, they had grown silently in the dark. _So_ _sensitive_. How much he was enjoying this was embarrassingly obvious.

"Sorry," He apologised, breaking the kiss to shamefully dip his head. His voice was so guttural Y/N hardly recognised it.

When her lips parted to tell him it's fine, his wide pupils stayed on them, on the way the bedside lamp reflected off their shining surface, transfixed.

What was she supposed to do, then? Leave him like that? Tear herself away from his aroused and hungry body, flick off the light and settle down on her side of the bed to sleep?

That seems like a cruel thing to do. 

That was Y/N's excuse, anyway.

Out of breath, hilariously out of breath considering they'd just been making out a bit, Y/N asked: "Do you want to stop?"

Stupid question. Look at him.

Sherlock's raspberry-coloured tongue ran over his bottom lip, lapping up the remnants of Y/N's kiss. He shifted below her and the consequence was spectacular, the pit of his stomach clenching as if electrified, his eyes sliding shut of their own accord. He'd rubbed against Y/N's weight experimentally, although he had no reason to experiment, to tentatively take a sample of what was to come if he asked to continue; he'd already made up his mind. He didn't want to stop. He'd decided that  _ ages _ ago, before Y/N had straddled him, the curve of her hips fitting neatly into the palms of his hands, before the rain, the park, before Basil.

"No. Don't stop." He pushed his head forwards enough to graze Y/N's collarbone with the smooth edge of his teeth. "Please."

So she didn't. She nudged him down onto the bed, kissed him again until he was gasping beneath her, hair mussed and eyes alight with sparks. She teased him, going agonisingly slow just to hear him beg, then laugh at himself; at what he'd become. She did things that made his back curve into a lithe arc, groans tumbling from his jaw between panted, breathy attempts at her name.

Once Y/N had started letting herself touch Sherlock as a lover would, she found it increasingly difficult to stop. Maybe they would have hooked up a long time ago, had Y/N's self-restraint weakened enough let her press a hand to the small of her flatmate's back as they passed in a hallway, or pecked him good night on the lips when they were sharing a bed. It took so little to make her want him. Especially now, as he grew confident enough to explore, run his hands over the parts of Y/N's body that curved, trace the shape of her with his mouth.

He didn't  _ need _ to trace the shape of her, he knew it by heart. 

He'd loved her this whole damn time. 

  
  



End file.
